
Class r K. - 

By bequest of 

William Lukens vShoemaker 



'**'*«»» 



OWEN MEREDITH'S POEMS. 



FROM THE LONDON PRESS. 



"The gossip of tlie litprarv woi-lil long ago reroaled that the 
vo)>i (le plu))ie of ' Owen IMonHlith ' but lightly veiled tlie reality of 
'Robert llulwer Lytton.' Something of Saxon strengtli lends 
nerve and muscle to his line, and the grand old Saxon music 
echoes in his strains."" — Literary. Gazette. 

" Some of the poems match in hoanty of language and grace 
of thought with such masteri>ieces of music as IIerrick"s, Oarew"s, 

Marvers, Tennyson"s, l\Ioorc"s, or Edgar Poe"s Every way 

this volume is remarkable."' — Atheticeum. 

" It is not often in tlie present dull and prosaic times that we 

meet with a volume of such elegant and original poetry 

The more Mr. Owen Meredith is read and understood, so much 
the more will he be pronounced to be one of tlie very lest poets — 
if not the best— of the present age."' — BtU's Messenger. 

" If passion, and fervour, and intellect, ever renewing the beau-" 
tiful even in the shadow of suffering, and language rippling nm- 
sically np to the marge of riiyme as waves break in murmurs on 
the beach, he iiulieatioiis of the true poet, we have them all 
here."— C/-(7/c. 

" To descri' e them honestly is to declare that they are the best 
things of their kind that have come before the i>ublic for many a 
day. Some of them an' ex([uisite in the extreme, displaying a 
fine sensibility and a thorough knowledge of human uature." — 
Morniiiii Chronicle. 



POEMS 



OWEN MEREDITH 



THE WANDERER 

AND 

C L Y T E M N E S T R A . 



BOSTON: 
TICKNOR AND FIKLDS 



M DCCC LIX. 






RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
PaiNTKD BY H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 

OiH. 
W. L. Shoemaker 
7 S '06 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Dkdication. To J. F ix. 

Prologue. I'art 1 17 

Part ir 25 

Part III 28 

BOOK I. IN ITALY. 

The Magic Land 35 

Desire 36 

Fatality 39 

A Vision 40 

Fros 42 

Indian Love Song 43 

Morning and Meeting 45 

The Cloud 47 

lloot and Leaf 47 

Warnings 48 

A Fancy 51 

Once ; 53 

Since 56 

A Love Letter :." 58 

Condemned Ones 64 

The Storm 66 

The Vampyre 69 

Change 71 

A Chain to Wear 75 

Silence 75 

News 78 

Count Kinaldo Rinaldi 79 

The Last Message 82 

Venice 84 

On the Sea 85 

BOOK II. IN FRANCE. 

" Prcnsus in iEgteo " 89 

A TFiitresol 91 

Terra Incognita .• , 94 

A Kemembrance 97 

Madame la Marquise 98 



VI CONTENTS. 

Pagre 

The Novel -. 1(»1 

Aux Italicns , 103 

rroi:;ress 107 

The Tortrait 108 

Astmte Ill 

At Home during tlie Ball 113 

At Home after >he Ball 116 

All Cal\^ * * * 119 

The Chess-Board 130 

Song 131 

The Last Kemonstrance 132 

Sorcery. To 135 

Adieu,' iMignonne, ma Belle . 137 

To ISIignonne 138 

Compensation 141 

Tran^latiiMis from Peter Konstuxl: 

" Voici le Bois que ma Sainctc Angelctte ". . 142 

" Oaelie pour cette Nuict " " 143 

" Page SUV ^loy " 143 

" Les Espices sont ii Ceres " 144 

" ]\Ia Douce Jouveucc " 144 



[BOOK 111. IN ENGLAND 

The Aloe 146 

" Medio de Fonte Leporum " 149 

The Death of King llacon 150 

" Carne Diem " 152 

The Fount of Truth 153 

^lidges 157 

The last Time that I met Lady Ruth 160 

Matrimonial Counsels 161 

Sea-Saw 163 

Babylonia 165 

BOOK IV. IN SAVITZERLAND. 

The Heart and Nature 172 

A Quiet Moment 174 

Nienia3 176 



BOOK V. IN HOLLAND. ' 

Autumn 180 

Leafless Hours 180 

On my Twcnty-f()urth Year 181 

.lacqucline . . . .' 183 



CONTENTS. VII 

MacromicroH 188 

MyHtcrv 100 

The Cjitif.icic of Love 198 

'l"hc I'cddlcr 200 

A (ilioMt Story , 202 

Small I'ooplo 20;3 

MotempMyclioHis 204 

To tlic (^uccn ^f Serpents 205 

lilucboard 206 

I'sitimji 207 

(ioirif^ buck fifr'.iin 207 

The CiiHtle of Kirif,' Miicbetli 208 

I)o!itli-in-Lifc 209 

Kirif,' lAmoH 209 

The l-'ugitivc 211 

'I he Shore 212 

The North Sea 214 

A Xi;^lit in tlie FiHherman'B lint: 

I'art I. — The FiHlKirrnan'H Danghter 217 

Tart 11. — 'I'he I.ej^end of Lord KoHencrantz . . . 220 

I'art flL— Daybreak 223 

Piirt I v.— lireakfaHt 226 

A Drenm 227 

K irifj Solomon ! 228 

(Jordelia 231 

" Ye seek Jesu.s of Nazareth whieh was crueified: ". 233 

'i"o Cordelia 237 

A Letter to Cordeh'a 240 

Failure 242 

Misanthropes 243 

1500 K VI J'AMNOENKHTS 

A I'rayer 248 

J'iiithanasia 250 

The Soul's Science 257 

A I'salm of Confession 258 

Kequiescat 205 

KflLOTJUP^ 

fart 1 200 

I'art II 270 

Part III 275 

/ 
CLrrKMNESTIlA. 

Clytemnestra 2H7 

Good-Night in the Porch 878 



VIU CONTENTS. 

Page 

The Earl's Eeturn 389 

A Soul's Loss 415 

The Artist 420 

The Wife's Tragedy 427 

MINOR POEMS. 

The Parting of Launcelot and Guenevere 450 

A Sunset Fancy 459 

Associations 461 

Meeting again 462 

Aristocracy 463 

The Mermaiden 463 

At her Casement 464 

A Farewell 465 

An Evening in Tuscany 465 

Song 469 

Sea-Side Songs. 1 471 

II 472 

The Stimmer-Time that was 473 

Elayne Le Blanc 474 

To 482 

Queen Guenevere 482 

The neglected Heart ^ 483 

Appearances 485 

How the Song was made 486 

Retrospections. . , .' 486 

Thy Voice across my Spirit falls 487 

The ruined Palace 488 

A Vision of Virgins 488 

Leoline 492 

Spring and Winter 494 

King Hermandiaz 496 

Song 497 

The Swallow 498 

Contraband 498 

Evening 499 

Adon 500 

The Prophet 501 

Wealth 501 

Want 501 

A Bird at Sunset 502 

In Travel 503 

Changes 505 

Judicium Paridis 506 

Night 513 

Song 513 

Forbearance 514 



THE WANDEREK. 



DEDICATION. 



I'O J. F. 

Ah, in tlio launil'H niurninroiiH loavfs 

''I'vvas fabled, onoo, a Vlr;^iri dwelt; 
WiUiiri till; poct'H f»a;iO yet heaves 
'I'lie [)oet'.s Heart, and loves or grieves 
Or triinnplis, as it ielt. 

A liiirnan s[)irit liere reeords 

'11m; annals of its human strife. 
A Innnan hand hath toueh'd these chords. 
These son<^s may all be idhi words : 
And yet — they once wer(; life. 

I f(av(; u\y harp to Memory, 

She sung of hope, when hope was young, 
Of youth, as youth no nion; may be ; 
And, sinc(; sIk; sung of youth, to thee, 
Friend of my youth, hIk; sung. 

For all youtli seeks, all mjtnhood needs, 

All youth and manhood rarely find : 
A strength more strong than codes or creeds, 
In lofty thoughts and lovely deeds 
Keveal'd to heart and mind ; 

A staff to stay, a star to guide ; 

A sp(;ll to so'jthe, a power to raise ; 
A faith by fortune firmly tri(;d ; 
A judgment resolute to preside 
O'er days at strife with days. 



11 DEDICATION. 

O large in lore, in nature sound ! 
O man to me, of all men, dear ! 
All tliese in thine my life hath found, 
And force to tread the rugged ground 
Of daily toil, with cheer. 

Accept — not these, the broken cries 

Of days receding far from me — 
But all the love that in them lies. 
The man's heart in the melodies, 

The man's heart honouring thee ! 

Sighing I sung ; for some sublime 

Emotion made my music jar : 

The forehead of this restless time 

Pales in a fervid, passionate clime, 

Lit by a changeful star ; 

And o'er the Age's threshold, traced 

In characters of hectic fire, 
The name of that keen, fervent-faced 
And toiling seraph, hath been placed. 
Which men have call'd Desire. 

But thou art strong where, even of old, 

The old heroic strength was rare, 
In high emotions self-controll'd. 
And insight keen, but never cold, 
To lay all falsehood bare ; 

Despising all those glittering lies 

Which in these days can fool mankind ; 
But full of noble sympathies 
For what is genuinely wise. 
And beautiful, and kind. 

And thou wilt pardon all the much 

Of weakness which doth here abound, 
Till music, little prized as such. 



DEDICATION. 

With thee find worth from one true touch 
Of nature in its sound. 

Tho' mighty spirits are no more. 

Yet spirits of beauty still remain. - 
Gone is the Seer that, by the shore 
Of lakes as limpid as his lore, 
Lived to one ceaseless strain 

And strenuous melody of mind. 

But one there rests that hath the power 
To charm the midnight moon, and bind 
All spirits of the sweet south wind, 
And steal from every shower 

That sweeps green England cool and clear, 

The violet of tender song. 
Great Alfred ! long may England's ear 
His music fill, his name be dear 
To English bosoms long 1 

And one ... in sacred silence sheathed 

That name I keep, my verse would shame. 
The name my lips in prayer first breathed 
Was his : and prayer hath yet bequeath'd 
Its silence to that name ; — 

Which yet an age remote shall hear, 

Borne on the fourfold wind sublime 
By Fame, where, with some faded year 
These songs shall sink, hke leaflets sere, 
In avenues of Time. 

Love on my harp his finger lays ; 

His hand is held against the chords. 
My heart upon the music weighs, 
And, beating, hushes foolish praise 
From desultory words : 



V DEDICATION. 

And Childhood steals, with wistful grace, 

'Twixt him' and me ; an infant hand 
Chides gently back the thoughts that chase 
The forward hour, and turns my face 
To that remember d land 

Of legend, and the Summer sky, 

And all the wild Welsh waterfalls. 
And haunts where he, and thou, and I 
Once wander'd with th(^ wandering Wye, 
And scaled the airy walls 

Of Chepstow, from whose ancient height 
We watch'd the liberal sun go down ; 
Then onward, thro' the gradual night, 
Till, ere the moon was fully bright. 
We supp'd in Monmouth Town. 

And tho', dear friend, thy love retains 

The choicest sons of song in fee. 
To thee not less I pour these strains, 
Knowing that in thy heart remains 
A little place for me. 

Nor wilt thou all forget the time 

Tho' it be past, in which together. 
On many an eve, with many a rhyme 
Of old and modern bards sublime 

We soothed the summer weather : 

And, citing all he said or sung 

With praise reserved for bards like him, 
Spake of that friend who dwells among 
The Apennine, and there hath strung 
A harp of Anakim ; 

Than whom a mightier master never 

Touch'd the deep chords of hidden things; 
Nor error did from truth dissever 



DEDICATION. 

With keener glance ; nor made endeavour 
To rise on bolder wings 

In those high regions of the soul 

Where thought itself grows dim with awe. 
But now the star of eve hath stole 
Thro' the deep sunset, and the whole 
Of heaven begins to draw 

The darkness round me, and the dew. 

And my pale Muse doth fold her eyes. 
Adieu, my friend; my guide, adieu ! 
May never night, 'twixt me and you, 
With thoughts less fond arise ! 

The Author. 
Flokence, Se2)i, 24, 1857. 



THE WANDERER 



rilOLOGUP]. 

PART 1. 

8wki<:t are the rosy ineniories of tlie lips, 

That first kiss'd ours, albeit they kiss no more : 

Sweet is the si<;ht of'sunsot-saihn<i; ships, 
Altlio' they leave us on a lonely shore : 

Sweet are ianiiliar sonirs, tho' Mnsie dips 

Her hollow shell in Thouiiht's iorlornest wells : 
And sweet, tho' sad, the sound ofniidnijiht bells. 

When the oped casement with the night-rain drips. 

There is a pleasure whieli is born of pain : 

The orave of all things hath its violet. 
Else why, thro' days which never come again, 

Roams Hope with that strange longing, like 
Regret V 
Why put the posy in the cold dead haiul ? 

Why plant the rose above the lonely grave ? 

Why bring the cor[)se across the salt sea-wave ? 
Why deem the dead more near in native land V 

Thy name hath been a slleni'e in my life 
So long, it tiUters upon language now, 

O more to me than sister or than wife 

Once . . . and now — nothing ! It is hard to know 
2 



18 TllIO \VAN1)EKE1{. 

That siu'h thiDgs have boon, and are not, and yet 
I^iio loiters, keeps a pulse at even measure, 
And jioes u[)on its business and its pleasure, 

And knows not all the de])ths of its regret. 

Thou art not. in thy pieture, O my friend ! 

Tlie years are sad and many sinee 1 saw thee. 
And seem with me to liave survived their end. 

Far otherwise than thus did memory draw thee ! 
1 ne'er shall know thee other than thou wast. 

Yet save, indeed, the same sad eyes of old. 

And that abundant hair's warm silken <rold, 
'JMiou art ehanued, if this be like the loolv thou hast. 

Chauiied ! There the epitaph of all the years 

^^'as soumled ! 1 am ehanged too. Let it be. 
Yet is it sad to know my latest tears 

Were faithful to a memory, — not to thee. 
Nothing is left us I nothing — ^save the soul. 

Yet even the immortal in us alters too. 

Who is it liis old sensations ean lenew V 
Slowly the seas are ehanged. Slow ages loll 

'J'he mountains to a level. Nature sleeps, 

And dreams her dream, and to new work awakes, 

After a hunilred years are in the deeps. 

But Man is ehanged before a wrinkle breaks 

The brow's sereneness, or the eurls are gray. 
W^e stand within the Ihix of sense : the near 
And far change plaee : and we see nothing elear. 

That's false to-morrow whieh was true lo-day. 

Ah, eould the memory east her spots, as do 

'J'he snake's brood theiis in si)riug I and be once 
more 

"Wholly renew'd, to dwell i' the time that's new, 
\\'ith no reiteranee of those pangs of yore. 

i*eaee, peaee I JNIy Avild song will go waiulering 
Too wantonly, down paths a i)rivale i)ain 



I'UOLOCillK. — I'AKT 1. 11) 

llatli trodtliMi hare. What was it jarrM (ho 
strain ? 
JSonie iTiisht illusion, K'lt with ('riinijiU'd wiii^- 

'ran<ikul in Music's web of twined strings — 

That started that false note, and craek'd the tunc 
In its bi'iiinniufJT. Ah, Ibr^otten thin;j,s 

Stunilih' baelc stran^rly ! and the <i;h()sl olJuue 
Stands by December's lire, eold, cold ! and puts 

'I'he last spark out. 

How could I sino- aright 

With those old airs hanntin«j; me all the niuht 
And those old steps that sound when da^ li^ht shuts ? 

For back she comes, and moves i-epi-oacdilullv, 
Thi^ mistress of my moods, atid looks Ijcri'lt 
(Cruel to the last I) as tho' 'twere I, not she, 

'That did the wronjf, and broke the spell, and left 
INh'moi-y comtortless. 

Away ! away ! 
IMiautonis, about whose brows the bindweed 

clings, 
1 lojieless regret ! 

In thinking of these things 
iSome uien have lost their minds, and others may. 

Yet, oh, for ont^ dei-p draught in this dull hour ! 

One deep, deep di-aught of the departed time I 
Oh, for one brief strong juilse of ancient power, 

'Vo beat and breathe thro' all the valves olrhyuje ! 
'I'hou, Memory, with the downward eyes, that art 

The cupbearer of gods, pour <leep ami long, 

lirim all the vacant chalices of" song 
AV'ith lu'alth ! Droop down thine urn. I hold my 
heart. 

One draught of what 1 shall not taste again, 

Save when ni}' brain with thy dark wine is 
brimnfd, — 



20 THE WANDEKKK. 

One draught ! and then straight onward, s[)ito of 
pain, 
And spite of all things changed, with gaze un- 
dimni'd. 
Love's footsteps thro' the waning Past to explore 
Undaunted ; ami to earve, in the Avan light 
Of Hope's last outposts, on Song's utmost height 
The sad resemblanee of an hour no more. 

Miilnight, and love, and youth, and Italy ! 

Love in the land where love most lovely seems ! 
Land of my love, tho' I be far from thee, 

Lend, for love's sake, the light of thy moonbeams, 
The sjiirit of thy eypress-groves, and all 

Thy dark-eyed beauty, for a little while 

To my desire. Yet once more let her smile 
F<dl o'er me : o'er me let her long hair fall, 

1'he lady of my life, whose lovely eyes 

Dreaming, or waking, lure me. 1 shall know her 

By Love's own planet o'er her in the skies. 
Ami Beauty's blossom in the grass below her ! 

Dreaming, or Avaking, in her soft, sad gaze 
Let n»y heart bathe, as on that fated night 
I saw her, when my life took in the sight 

Of her sweet face tor all its nights and days. 

Her winsome head Avas bare : and she had twinetl 
Thro' its rieh eurls wild red anemones. 

One stream of her soft hair stray'd unconfiuod 
Down her ripe cheek, and shadow'd her dee[) 
eyes. 

The bunch of SAVord-grass fell from her loose hand. 
Her modest loot beneath its snowy skirt 
Peep'il, and the golden daisy Avas not hurt. 

Stately, yet slight, she stood, as fairies stand. 

Under the blessed darkness unreproved 
We Avere alone, in that best hour of time. 



PROLOGTTK. — PART I. 21 

Wliicli first rcvcal'd to us how much wo lovod, 
'Ncalh th(^ thick stailifrlit. "i'lie young nifjlit sub- 

liilK! 

IIim<^ treinbliuji o'er us. At her feet I knelt, 
And fTazed u[) from her feet into her eyes. 
Her face was bow'd : we breath 'd each otlior's 
siolis : 

We did not speak : not move : we look'd : we felt. 

Tlie nifjht said not a word. Th(^ breeze was d(;ad. 

The leaf hiy without whisperiiijr on the tree, 
As I lay at. her feet. Di'oopt was her head : 

One hand in mine : and one still pensively 
Went wandering through my hair. We were to- 
gether. 

How y Where? What matter ? Somewliere in 
a dream, 

Drifting, slow drifting, down a wizard stream : 
Whither V Together: then what matter whither ? 

It was enouoh for me to clasp her hand : 

To blend with her love-looks my own : no more. 

Enough (with thoughts lik(! ships that cannot land, 
Blown by faint winds about a magic shore) 

To realize, in each mysterious feeling, 

The dr-oop of the warm cheek so near my own : 
The cool white arm about my shoulder thrown : 

Those exquisite frail feet, where 1 was kneeling. 

How little know they life's divinest bliss, 

That know not to possiiss and yet refrain ! 
Let the young Psyche roam, a fh^eting kiss : — 

Grasp it — a few poor grains of dust remain. 
See how those floating flowers, the butterflies, 

Hover the garden thro', and take no root ! 

Desire forever hath a flying foot. 
Free pleasure comes and goes beneath the skies. 

Close not thy hand upon the innocent joy 
That trusts itself within thy reach. It may. 



22 THE WANDERER. 

Or may not, linger. Thou canst but destroy 
The winged wanderer. Let it go or stay. 

Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem. 
Think ! Midas starved by turning all to gold". 
Blessed are those that spare, and that withhold. 

Because the whole world shall be trusted them. 

The foolish Faun pursues the unwilling Nymph 
That culls her flowers beside the precipice, 

Or dips her shining ankles in the lymph : 
But, just when she must perish or be his, 

Heaven puts an arm out. She is safe. The shore 
Gains some new fountain ; or the lilied lawn 
A rarer sort of rose : but, ah, poor Faun I 

To thee she shall be changed forevermore. 

Chase not too close the foding rapture. Leave 

To Love his long auroras, slowly seen. 
Be ready to release, as to receive. 

Deem those the nearest, soul to soul, between 
Whose lips yet lingers reverence on a sigh. 

Judge what thy sense can reach not, most thine 
own, 

If once thy soul hath seized it. The unknown 
Is life to love, religion, poetry. 

The moon had set. There was not any light, 

Save of the lonely legion'd watch-stars pale 
In outer air, and what by fits made bright 

Hot oleanders in a rosy vale 
Search'd by the lamping fly, whose little spark 

Went in and out, like passion's bashful hope. 

Meanwhile the sleepy globe began to .slope 
A ponderous shoulder sunward thro' the dark, 

And the night pass'd in beauty like a dream. 

Aloof in those dark heavens paused Destiny, 
With her last star descending in the gleam 

Of the cold morrow, from the emptied sky. 



PROLOGUE. — PART I. 23 

The hour, the distance from her old self, all 
The novelty and loneness of the place, 
Had li'ft a lovely awe on that fair face, 

And all the land grew strange and magical. 

As droops some billowing cloud to the croucli'd hill, 

Heavy with all heaven's tears, for all eartli's care. 
She droop'd unto me. without force or will. 

And sank upon my bosom, murnmring there 
A woman's inarticulate, passionate words. 

O moment of all moments upon eaith ! 

O life's supreme ! How worth, how wildly worth, 
Whole worlds of flame, to know this world aifords 

What even Eternity can not restore ! 

When all the ends of life take hands, and meet 
Round centres of sweet fire. Ah, never more. 

Ah never, shall the bitter with tlie sweet 
Be mingled so in the pale after years ! 

One hour of life immortal spirits possess. 

This drains the world, and leaves but weariness, 
And parching passion, and perplexing tears. 

Sad is it, that we cannot even keep 

That hour to sweeten life's last toil : but Ynuth 
Gras[)S all, and leaves us: and, when we wou'd wee'd 

We dare not let our tears flow lest, in truth. 
They fall upon our work which must be done 

And so we })ind up our torn hearts from bri^aking: 

Our eyes fiom weeping, and our brows from 
aching : 
And follow the long pathway all alone. 

O moment of sweet peril, perilous sweet! 

When woman joins herself to man ; and man 
Assumes the full-lived woman, to complete 

The end of life, since human life began ! 
When in the perfect bliss of union. 

Body and soul triumphal rapture claim, 



24 THE WANDKllKU. 

When there's a spirit in blood, in spirit a flame, 
And earth's lone hemispheres glow, fused in one ! 

Kare moment of rare peril ! . . . . The bard's song, 
The mystic's musing fancy. Did there ever 

Two perfect souls, in perfect forms, bcilong 
Perfectly to each other ? Never, never ! 

Perilous were such moments, for a touch 

Might mar their clear perfection. Exquisite 
Even for the peril of their frail delight. 

Such things man feigns : such seeks : but finds not 
such. 

No ! for 'tis in ourselves our love doth grow : 

And, when our love is fully risen within us, 
Round the first object doth it overflow. 

Which, be it fair or foul, is sure to win us 
Out of ourselves. We clothe with our own nature 

The man or woman its first want doth find. 

The leafless prop with our own buds we l)ind. 
And hide in blossoms : fill the empty feature 

W^ith our own meanings : even prize defects 

Which keep the mark of our own choice upon 
The chosen : bless each fault whose spot protects 

Our choice from possible confusion 
With the world's other creatures : Ave believe them 

What most we wish, the more we find they are 
not : 

Our choice once made, with our own choice we 
war not : 
We worship them for what ourselves we give them. 

Doubt is this otherwise When fate removes 

The unworthy one from our reluctant arms, 

W^e die with that lost love to other loves, 
And turn to its defects from other charms. 

And nobler forms, where moved those forms, may 
move 



rROLOGXTE. — rART IT. ?5 

With Hnjjorinj»- looks : our cold farc-\vclls we wave 

them. 
We loved our lost loves for the love we gave them, 
And not for anything they gave our love. 

Old things return not as they were in Time. 

Trust nothing to the recompense of Chance, 
Which deals with novel forms. This falling rhyme 

Fails from the flowery steeps of old Romance, 
Down that abyss which Memory droops above ; 

And, gazing out of ]io[)elessness down there, 

I see the shadow crcej) thro' Youth's gold hair. 
And white Death watching over red-lijjp'd Love. 



PART TT. 

TiFK sold lives on. What lives on witli the soul ? 

(jtlimpses of something better than her best ; 
Truer than her truest : motion to a pole 

Jieyond the zones of this orb's dimness guest : 
And (since life dies not with the first dead bliss) 

Blind notions of some meaning moved thro' time, 

Some purpose in the deeps of the sublime, 
That stirs a })ulse here, could we find out this. 

Visions and noises rouse us. I discern 

Even in change some comfort, () Belov'd ! 
Suns rise and set; stars vanish and return ; 

But never quite the same. And life is moved 
Toward new experience. Every eve and mo» u 

Descends and springs with increase on the world. 

And what is death but life in this life furl'd V 
The outward cracks, the inward life is born. 

Friends pass beyond the borders of this Known, 

And draw our thoughts up after them. We sny 
" They are : but their relations now are done 



26 THE WANDERER. 

With Nature, and the plan of nigljt and day.' 
If never mortal man from this world's liuht 
Did pass away to that surrounding gloom, 
'Twei*e well to doubt the life beyond the tomb. 
But now is Truth's dark side reveal'd to sight. 

Father of spirits ! Thine all secrets be. 

I bless Thee for the light Thou hast reveal'd, 
And that Thou hidest. Part of me I see, 

And part of mc Thy wisdom hath conceal'd, 
Till the new life divulge it. Lord, imbue me 

With will to work in this diurnal sphere, 

Knowing myself my life's day-labourer here, 
Where evening brings the day's work's wages to me. 

I work my work. All its results are Thine. 

I know the loyal deed becomes a fact 
Which Thou wilt deal with : nor will I repine 

Altho' I miss the value of the act. 
Thou carest for the creatures : and the end 

Thou seest. The world unto Thy hands I leave: 

And to Thy hands my life. I will not grieve 
Because I know not all Thou dost intend. 

Something I know. Oft, shall it come about 
When every heart is full with li0|)e for man 

The horizon straight is darken'd, and a doubt 
Clouds all. The work the world so well began 

Wastes down, and by some deed of shame is finish'd. 
Ah yet, I will nat be dismay'd : nor tho' 
The good cause flourish fair, and Freedom flow 

All round, my watch beyond shall be diminish'd. 

What seem'd the triumph of the Fiend at length 
Might be the effort of some dying Devil, 

Permitted to put forth his fullest strength 
To lose it all forever. While, the evil 

Whose cloven crest our poeans float above 

Might have been less than what unnoticed lies 



PROLOGUE. — PART II. 27 

'Neath our rejoicings. Which of us is wise ? 
We know not what we mourn : nor why we love. 

But teach me, O Omnipotent, since strife, 
Sorrow, and pain, are but occurrences 

Of that condition thro' which flows my life, 
Not part of me, the immortal, whom distress 

Cannot retain, to vex not thouglit for these : 
But to be patient, bear, forbear, restrain. 
And hold my spirit pure above my pain. 

No star that looks thro' life's dark lattices. 

But what gives token of a world elsewhere. 

I bless Thee for the loss of all things here 
Which proves the gain to be : the hand of Care 

That shades the eyes from earth, and beckons 
near 
The rest which sweetens all: the shade Time throws 

On Love's pale countenance, that he may gaze 

Across Eternity for better days 
Unblinded ; and the wisdom of all woes : 

I bless Thee for the life Thou jiavest, albeit 
It hath known sorrow : for the sorrow's self 

I bless Thee ; and the gift of wings to flee it, 
L(ul by this spirit of song — this ministering elf, 

That to sweet uses doth unwin(t my pain. 
And spin his palace out of poison-flowers, 
To float, an impulse, thro' the livelong hours, 

From sky to sky, on Fancy's glittering skein. 

Aid me, sweet Spirit, escaping from, the throng 

Of those that raise the Cory ban tic shout. 
And barbarous, dissonant cymbal's clash prolong. 

In fear lest any hear the God cry out, 
Now that the night resumes her bleak retreat 

In these dear lands, footing the unwander'd wfiste 

Of Loss, to walk in Italy, and taste 
A little while of what was once so sweet. 



28 TUK WANDKISKU. 



rAIM' III. 



>b'iiRSK ofjiii filing >vorl(I, beloved Ni^lit ! 

Our (lays aro iVotl'iil cliildrcn, weak to bi'ar 
A little pain : tlu'y wrangle, wound, and (i<iht 

I^aeli other, weep, and .sicken, and despair. 
Thou, with thy niolheiiy hand that healeUi eare, 

Stillest our little noise : rebukest ont^, 

Soothest ai\other: blauiest tasks undone: 
IvelVeshest jaded hope ; and teacdiest prayer. 

Thine Is the mother's sweet hush-hush, that stills 
The llutterino's ot'a plaintive heart to rest. 

Thine is the mother's medieinlni>' hand that I'.lls 
Sleep's o[)iate: thine the mother's patient bi-east : 

Thine, too, the mother'^ unite reproaehfid eyes. 
That }2,H'ntly look our an<>ry noise to shame 
When all is done : we dare not meet their blame : 

They aro so silent, and they arc so wise. 

Thou that from this lone easeuuMit, while I write, 
Seen in the shadowy upsprinji;, swift dost post 

"Without a sound (he polar star to linht, 
Not idly did tlu' Chaldee shepherds boast 

\\y thy stern lights nian's life ai'i^ht to read. 
All day he hides himself from his own lu>arr, 
Swajiuers and struts, and })lays his foolish part: 

Thou only seest him as he is indeed. 

For who eould telou tiilse woi'th, or iiivt' the nod 
Amono- his fellows, or this dust disown, 

AVith nought between him and those lights of (lod, 
Left awfully alone with the Alone V 

Who vaunt hliih words, whose least heart's beatlnjj; 
jars 
'i'he hush of sentinel worlds that take mute note 
Of all beneath yon judgnient plains remote? — 

A universal coiriiizanee of stars! 



rUULOGUK. — I'AKT 111. 2'J 

And yet, O njoiitlest an<!;cl of the Lord ! 

'IMioii Icadest by the hand the artisan 
Away from work. ^I^liou h)'in<i|;cst, on sliip-board, 

Wh(Mi i!,l('ain the (h!ad-h<jjhts, to the lonely niiin 
That tnrns the wheel, a hk^ssed tniMnory 

Of af)i)le-l)loss()nis, and tlie mountain vales 

Al)(;nt his little cotta<ji;e in (Jlreen Wales, 
JNIiles o'er the ridges of the rolling sea. 

Thou bearest divine forgiveness amongst uwn. 

Relenting Anger pauses by the bed 
\Vli(!re Slec!!) looks so like Death. 'Hie absent then 

It(!tiirn ; and Memory beckons back the <lead. 
Thou helpest hoiru^ (thy balmy hand it is !) 

'J'he hard-work'd husband to the pale-cheek'd 
wife, 

And hush(!st u[) the poor day's household strife. 
On marriage pillows, with a gooil-night kiss. 

Tiiou bringcst to the wretched and forlorn 

Woman, that down the glinmu!ring byi^-strtet 
hovers, 

A (lr(!am of better days : the gleam of corn 
About her i^'ather's field, and luir first lover's 

(jli-ave, long foi-gott(in in the green churchyard : 
Voices, long-still'd, from purer hours, before 
The iMishlight, ll()j)e, went out; and, thro' the 
door 

Of the lone garret, when the nights were hard, 

J lunger, the wolf, put in his j)aw, and found her- 
Sewing the winding-sheet of Youth, alone; 

And grip'd away the last cohl comforts lound 
her : — 
Her little IxmI : the mean clothes slu; had on : 

Her mother's j)icture — the sole saint she knew : 
Till nothing else was left for the last crust 
But the [)0()v body, and tlu; heart's young trust 

In its own courajre: and so these went loj. 



;•(> rilK WA.NDKKKU. 

II()i)u< iVoiM tlu< I\«>;iI(mI Hall lliisht Hcaiily stands, 
Miisiii<4 l>i>si(U> luM" coslU r«turl> alono : 

Kill wliilo slu' loosiMis, taint, with jowi'lIM liauds, 
VUv (liaiuoiuls tVom luM'dark liair, diu^ by oiu', 

Thou whis|uM'(>st in hor iMupty lu>art tlio naino 
Ol' OIU' that diod luNirt-brokon lor \\vv salv«^ 
liOUii' siiu'i', and all at onco tho roil'd lioU-snako 

Turns stiniiing in liis i\mi, and pomp is slianio. 

Tliou roini'st to tlu> man ol' many ploasiiri's 
\\'itl»ont a joy. that, sonlhss, plays lor souls, 

\\"hoso lil'o's H sipiandiM'M hoap ol" plnndorM troas- 
nr»'S. 
\VhiK\ listless loitrrinii l>y, Uu' monnMil n)lls 

From nothiiii*- on to nothing. From tho sludt' 
l\M'i'hanri> ho takos a rynii* hook. Pojvhanc*' 
.\ doa.d llowor stains \Uc K'.ivos. 'I'ho old ro- 
n\am'o 

Kotnrns. Kw m«>rn, pirrhani'O, ho shools hiin- 



ThoM oomost, with a touch o\' si'orn, to mo. 

That o'or iho hrokou wiuo-oup ol' n\y youth 
Sit hroodiuij; hon>, aiui poiutt>st siloutly 

To Ihino um'haniiin<> stars. YosI yos I in irulh, 
'I'hoN soiMU moro roav'hloss now than wlioii ot' 
yoro 

.Vbovo iho jutiniist laud I watoht thoin shiuo. 

Aiul all amonti' thoir oryptio sor[>ontiiu> 
Wi'Ut oliuihinn llopo, now plaiu'ts to o\[)K>ro. 

Not for tho tU'sh that t;ulos -alt ho' dooay 

I'his throuii'M motropolis ot' sonso o'orsproad : 

Not I'or tho joys ot' youth, that floot away 

Whon tlu> wiso swallows to tho south aro llod ; 

Not that, bouoath tho l.iw whioh tados tho llowor, 
An oarthly ln^po should witluM- in iho oolls 
Of (his poor oarthly houso ol' lifo, whoro dwoILs 

IJnsoon tho solitarv rhinkiu<'-l\>wor ; 



ii'.<ti,<KHH:.- I'Aui \n. ')1 

I>iil, lliJil, vvli«-.r<', fadcM (lie flf»\vcr tin; wi-i-<l hIioiiM 
(louri.Hli ; 

I'or ;i.ll ilic. hiifllcd cHoiIh W> achieve. 
The, iinpeiiMhalih; IVoiii the. lhiii;/H ihal. |»e.nHh, 

I'dv l>rf)ken vowh, and we.ake.n'd will, I j^ricvc. 
Kiiowiiie; t,liafc iii;.diL oC all in r!re,e,[)iii;.' on 

VVheicrMi can iifj man work, I Horr';w iriOrtf, 

I"'(»r what, in j/ain'd, and not lor what tn hnt : 
Nor- rnonrn alone what'rt undone, hut whal-'.-s done. 

VVhal li<.'ht, i'loui yonder- windlc-MH cloud jele^asM, 
In widening u[) the, pe.akH of yon \>\ncU hilln '.' 

It, iH the (ull moon in the myntic eawt., 

VVhoHe, coming half the unravi«hl- <iarknesH fiii,-^. ; 

Till all anions; the rihh'd lij.'hl. eloudlelM pale, 
l''rom Khore t.() nhore <;(' Ma()f>hrine deepH divirn?, 
'Ihe orb(Ml H[»l(jndour Hi-t-iuH to Hlide, and nhine. 

Aslope, t,he rollin;.^ va[>ourH in the vale. 

Ahio.'id tlu! Htars maJeMiif; li;.'ht, \h (lun;/. 

And t.hey f'a,d«'. hrlj/hteuinnr ijp t he Mtep.s of Xi^ht. 

('old inyMtericH of (he mi<lpi;.dit I that, amon^ 
The Mle.(u»H and pauMCH of thiw world, in «i;^ht, 

iJeveal a douhtful liope Ut wild DvMVi- ; 

VVhieh, huni.'e,rinj.' for the H^Hjrcc.H of the hudh, 
MiikcH moan heyond the, l;lu(5 .Se[)te,iilriorirt, 

And >4pidery Saturn in hi.s wehn of fire; 

VVIiel,||(;i the, nnecjuHeiouH de^<tini<;.H of m;i,n 

Move, with the moliotiH of your Hf)het<';d li^fhts, 

And hirt brief cou rue, fore,rJoom'(i tuv. h«5 he;.'aii, 
Your Hhinin^' Kymfiols fix'd in re,aehl(;H.'^ heii^htrt, 

Or whetheiall th(' purjKwe, of his pain 

r.e .Hhi4t in hi.s wild heart au'l feveri.sh will, 

lie knr>WH no more, than thin: th>tt you are, still, 

I Jul lie, i.s moverj : lie, ^'0(rs, hut you remain. 

T'oolM w;n the fiuman v;i,nity that wrote 

JStran;/e name.H in .astral lire on yonder |joI(;. 



U2 I'llK NVAN1>KKKU. 

Who ami wli.il wcrr tlii'v — in wli.it ;\)Xo i'immoIo-— 
'I'liiii scffiwlM weak hoaslson von sidtM'ial scroll ? 

Orion shines. Now stu'k lor NiuuHxl. \VhiM'o ? 
Osiris is a. fabU', and no more: 
lint Sirius hnrns as liri^hlly as of yori'. 

'lMu>r«' is no shade on Kcrenici^'s hair. 

\ i)U that onthisl thl^ Pyramids, as they 

OutlasI their lonn(K>rs, loll ns of our doom! 

You that. si'<> liOve di^pai'l, and lOrror sti*ay, 
And'(iiMiius toiling- ill ii s[)hMidid tond), 

l/dve those M^yptian slavi'S : and Hope deeeivM: 
And Strength still l'ailin}>' whiMi the jiioal is near: 
And Tassion pareht : and Kajiturtwlaspt to Fear: 

And Trust hetray'd : and MiMuory l)i>re.ivM ! 

N'ain (pu'stion ! Shall soini^ otluM" voiei> di^elai'e 

\Vhat my soul knows not ol" luu'selt'y Ah no! , 
J)und) patient Monsti'r, <2;riiivini>' every wlu're, 

Thou auswiM-est nothiui;' wITudj I did not know. 
Tlu^ broken tVamneuls of ourselvi's W(^ seek 

In alien forms, and h*avt^ our lives behind. 

In our own nieuioi'ies oui' <ii'aves we liud. 
And when we lean iipiui oui- hrarls, they break. 

I seem to see 'n\id yoiuK'r ui;hnuntn'ini»; spheres 
.\ not her world : -not that our |)rayers reeord, 

WhertMu our (Jod shall wipe away all tears, 
And nevtM' voiei> ol* uiournino' shall be heard; 

lint one l>i'tween the sunsi't and moon rise : 

Nivir ni«i;hl, yet nei!ihbouriu»i- day : a twilit land, 
And peopled by a melaneholy band - 

The souls that loved aiul t'ail'd — with lu>peh>ss eyes; 

More like that Hades of the autitiue .ri'tMls ; 

A laud kA' vales foilorn. wlure I'liou^ht .-hall 
roam 
Iveiiretl'ul, vi>id ot" wholesoiuv> human dev'ds. 

.Vu endless, homvdess, piuin>; after liouu', 



ruoiociii". - r.XK'i" ii 



33 



To vvliicli all si;;lils and sdiiikIm sliaJI iiiinistcr 
III vain : —white rosc^s ^liiimicriiiiL!; all aloiw^ 
III an (W(iniii<jj lij^lil,: and, vvilli liis IimiihIJiih- lono, 

'riic ;i,(lv;iii('iii^ IvvIII^IiI.'h sliard-lioni Iriimpclcr. 

A worltl lllcci lliis world's wornl, coiihi back a;!;aiii ; 

Still «iro;i„ii,o- 'iHsitli llic litirtln'ii ol" a Fall: 
I'itcniMl loii<j,in<i; with ('l(M-iial |>;uii, 

Want, wilhoiil, hone, and incniory saddcniiiL; all. 
All (•onL;r(';^a,l(Ml liiinirc and despair 

Shall wand(M- there, thro' some old in;i/e of 
wroiio' : — 

Olthelia, drowiiiii^i, in her own deal,h-son;jj, 
And l''irst-L()ve strant>le,d in his «!;old(Mi hair. 

Ah well, I'oi' tJi(»se thai oviMconie, no donhl, 
The crowns arc; ready; striMi^i^tJi is to t,h(5 stroii;jj. 

r.iit, we — Itiit: we: W(sak hearts that. <i;ro|)e ahotit 
III darkness, with a, lamp that, liiils alon<ij 

'l"h(^ lengthening inidni^ihl, dyin<j; ero W(i n^'udi 
The bridal doors ! Oh, what, for iis remains, 
Uiil mortal ellbrt; with immortal pains V 

And yet, (iod hreath'd a spirit, into i'acli ! 

I know this inira.(de of the soiil is more 

Than all the ina,rv(ds t,hat it, looks upon. 
And we are kinj>s whose, lierit;i;i;e was l)(d'ore 

The spluM-es, and owes no homajfc^ t.o the sun. 
Ill my own l)roa,st a mightier world I hear 

Than a,ll those orbs on orbs about, nu^ roll'<l ; 

Nor are yon kino;lier, stars, tlio' tlironeii on ;^(.I<I, 
And ^iiveii the, (^iiij)ires ol' l,lie nii(lni;j,lit,-air. 

l''or I, 1,00, am iiiidyiiij«; as yon ar(!. 

() t(\'ich im^ calm, and Uv.u-h nui selC-control : — 
To splu^-e my spirit like yon lixod star 

Thai, moves not, ever in tlu^ utmost, poh;, 
r>iil, whirls, and sl«',e.ps,and tnriisa,ll heaven one way. 

So, strong as At-hiH, Hhonid the spirit, stand, 
.'I 



34 THE WANDERER. 

And turn the jireat globe round in lier right 
hand, 
For recreation of her sovereign sway. 

Ah yet ! — For all, I shall not use my power. 
Nor reign within the light of my own home, 

Till speculation fades, and that strange hour 
Of the dej^arting of the soul is come ; 

Till all this wrinkled hnsk of care falls by. 
And my immortal nature stands upright 
In her perpetual morning, and the light 

Of suns that set not on Eternity ! 



BOOK I. 

IN ITALY. 

THE MAGIC LAND. 

By woodland belt, by ocean bar, 

The full south breeze our foreheads fann'd, 
And, under many a yellow star, 

We di'op{)'d into the Magic Land. 

There, every sound and every sight 

Means more than sight or sound elsewhere ; 

Each twilight star a two-fold light; 
Each rose a double redness, there. 

By ocean bar, by woodland belt, 

Our silent course a syren led. 
Till dark in dawn began to melt, 

I'hrough the wild wizard-work o'erhead. 

A murmur from the violet vales ! 

A glory in the goblin dell! 
There, Beauty all her breast unveils, 

And Music pours out all her shell. 

We watch'd, toward the land of (breams, 
The fair moon draw the nmrmuring main ; 

A single thread of silver beams 

Was made the monster's rippling chain. 



.">(> TllK \VANI>KUKlt. 

Wo hoard far olV (ho syroii's sotio- ; 

Wo onnght. tho nlonm of soa-maid's hair. 
Tlio iiliiutnorinii islos and nicks ainonii-, 

A\'o mtncd through sj^arkhuii' ])urpli^ air. 

Thou I\h>rning vdso, ami suioto tVoui far, 

llor olliti harps oVr land and soa ; 
Aud woodland bolt, and i^'oan bar, 
. Vo ono swoot noic, si^h'd " ltal\ I" 



DKSIKR 

TilK o-oldon Planet ol" tho Ocoldont 

Warm tVon\ his bath conios \\\\ V tho ros\ air. 
And yon i\Kiy toll which way tho l>ay!i;^hl went, 

Only by his last footsteps shining there : 
For no>v ho dwells 

Sea-doop o' tho other shore ot" the woi-ld. 
And winds himself in the pink-mouthod shells ; 
()r, with his ilnsky, sun-dyed Priest, 
AValks ii\ tho uarilens of tho ooi-iveons East ; 

Or hides in Indian hills; or saileth where 
Floats, curiously curl'd, 
Leagues out of sight and soont ot' spii-y trees, 
The cream-white nautilus on sapjdiriuo seas. 

l>ut hero tho Night from tho hill-top yonder 

Steals all alone, nor yet too soon ; 
1 have sighed for, ami sought for, her ; sadder 
and fonder 

(.\ll thro' the lonely anil lingering noon) 
Than a maiden that sits by tho lattice to ponder 

On vows mailo in vain, long since, under tho 
moon, 
llor dusky hair she hath shaken free, 

And her tender eves are wiKl with love; 



DKHiiti;. 37 

And lior balmy bosom lies baro to inc. 

She, hath li^^hted the seven sweet Pleiads above ; 
She is brc-athin;^ ov(;r the (Jreainin^ sea, 

She is rnurniurinj^ \()w in the eedar <irove ; 
SIm! hath |)ut to sh;(;j) the moaning dove 

In the sih;nt eyjin^ss tree. 

And there; is no voi(;e nor wliisper, — 
No voice nor whisper, 

In tlie hill-side oliv(\s all at rest, 
IJndcriKiatli blu(!-!ij:hted Ifesj>er, 

Sinkin;^, slowly, in th(; li(juid W(!Ht : 
For the night's heart knoweth best 
Love by silenee most exprest. 
I'he nif^htinj^ales keep mute 
Kach one his fairy flutC!, 
"Wh(!re the mute; stars look down, 
And th(! laurels close the green sea-side; 
Only one amorous lute 
Twangs in the distant town, 
From some lattice 0[)(;n'd wide : 
'J"he climbing rose and vine are hen;, are there, 
On the terrace, around, above m(; : 
The lone Lediean * lights from yon enchanted air 
Look down upon my spii-it, like a spirit's eyes that 
love me. 

IIow beantiful, at night, to muse on the mountain 
height. 
Moated in f)urpl<; air, arnl all alone ! 
IIow beautiful, at night, to look into the light 
Oi" loving (;yes, when loving lips lean down unto 
our own ! 
Jiut tli(;re is no hand in mine, no hand in mine, 
Nor any tender cheek against me prest : 



Jfovv (jft. uriw(;ari«;d, liavo we Hpciit tlio iiightH, 
1'ill fchc Lfdajari HtarH, ho faiiied for love, 
Woncler'd at U8 from above. ' — Cowley, 



SS rilK W \M)KUKI{. 

O slais that o\'v \\\o shiiu\ I plm\ I piiu', I pine, 
\\\i\\ ho|U'K'ss taiu'ios liidilcii in ;ui I'vor-lumm'i- 
inii' bri\ist ! 

() wlioro, O wheri> is slu< that slu^nKl he Iumc. 

Tho spirit my spirit (Ireanii'th ? 
AVitli tlu> passionate eves, so (loop, so dear, 

\Vl\ere a seeret sweetness hi'anieth ? 
O sleepeth she, with her soft <>ohl hair 

Streaniinii' ovtM* the fragrant pillow, 
And a riel) dream olowini; in her lipe ehetk. 

Far away, 1 know not whtMv, 
l>y Kuu^ly shores, wlu're thi^ tnmblinii" Inllow 

Sounds all niiiht in an enierahl ereek y 

Or doth shi^ lean o'er the easement sttMie 

When the day's dull noise is done with. 
And the seeptred spirit renuMints alone 

Into hei" Km>i-nsurpeil tlu'one, 
l>y the stairs the stars are won with'? 

Hearing the white owl I'all 
Where the river draws thro' the meadows below, 

By the beeehes brown, and the broken wall. 
His silverv, seaward waters, slow 

To the orean bonndinji' all : 
\Vith, here a star on his «»lowing breast, 

Antl, there a hunp do\vn-streanunii\ 
And a nuisieal motion towards the west 

Where the lonii" white elitVs are oleaming ; 
\N'liiK\ t'.ir in tlu' nu)onli>ihf, lies at rest 

A ureal ship, asleep and ilreaminu- ? 

()r doth she linuer yet 

Amouii' l>^'i' sisters and brothers. 
In thi" cdianiber wlu>re happy t;ut>s are met, 

Distinet from all the others V 
As my star up ther<\ be it ue\t'r so biiiiht. 

No other star resembles. 
Poih she steal to the window, and strain her si>'ht 



KATAMTY. .{!) 

(Whilo tlio |M'.ul ill Imt warm hair troniblcs) 

Over lliii (lark lln; <lisl,aiit Mi;^lil., 
I'\'(iliiiH; somi'l.liin^' cliaiii^cd in \wv home yi'( ; 

TliaL old soiij^s liavc lost tlicir old (U;litj;ht, 
And till', true soni is not (!onie ycL V 

Till IIk', n('aii\st star in si^^lit 

Is drown'd in a. tt-arfMl lii;lit. 

I woidd I hat I vvi'.re nij^h hoi", 

VVhi'.fi'.vt'r she. rest or rove ! 
My spirit wavos as a spiral fire 

In a viewless wind doth move, 
(io l()rth, alone, <ro forth, wild-winn'd Desire, 

Thon art the hird ol"fI»)ve, 
Thai hroodcst lone hy the ()lynj|)i;in (hrone ; 
And slron'i; to hi'ar the ihunders which destroy, 
Oi- letch the ravisht, llut«'.-playin<i' IMiry^^ian hoy; 
(Jo loriii, a(U0HS tlio world, and find my love ! 



FATALirV. 

I iiAVi'. seen her, wilh Ikm- golden hair. 
And iK'.r ex(piisite |»rimrose face, 
And the violet in her eyes; 
yXnd my lu^art rect^ived its own despair — 
Tlu', thrall of a hopeless <»raee, 

And the knowledge of how yonlh dies 

Live liair alloat with snakes of jjold. 
Ami a throat as white as snow, 
And a staU-ly fi;j;ur(^ and foot; 
A\u\ that faint pink smile, so sweet, so cold, 
Like a wood ancnion(% closed below 
The shade of an ilex root. 

Anil her delicate niilk-whitc hand in mine, 
And her [)ensive voic'c in my car, 



40 THE WANDKKKH. 

And lier eyes downcast as wc s])eak. 
I am filled with a rapture, vajiqe and line ; 
For there has (alien a si)arkling tear 
Over her soft, pale cheek. 

And 1 know that all is hopeless now. 
And that which nii<i;ht have been, 
Had she only waited a year or two, 
Is turn'd to a wild regret, I know. 

Which will haunt us both, whatever the scene, 
And whatever the i)ath we go. 

Meanwhile, for one moment, hand in hand, 
We gaze on each other's eyes ; 
And the red moon rises above us ; 
Wi' linger with love in the lovely land, — 
Italy with its yearning skies, 

And its wild white stars that love us. 



A VISION. 

TiiK hour of Hesperus ! the hour when i'eeling 

(J rows likest memory, and the full heart swells 
With pensive pleasure to the mellow pealing 

Of mournful nnisic upon distant bells : 
The hour when it seems sweetest to be loved, 

And saddest to have loved in days no more. 

O love, O life, O lovely land of yore, 
Thro' which, erewhile, these weary footsteps roved, 

AVas it a vision ? Or Irene, sitting 

Lone in her chamber, on her snowy bed, 

With listless fingers, lingeringly unknitting 
Her silken bodi(!e ; and, with bended head. 

Hilling in warm hair, half-way to her knee. 
Her pearl-pale shoulder, leaning on one arm, 



A VISION. 41 

Athwart the darkness, odorous and warm. 
To watch the low, full moon set, pensively V 

A fragrant lamp burn'd dimly in the room, 
With scarce a gleam in either lookiiif^-jrlass. 

The mellow moonlight, thro' the dee[)-blue gloom, 
Did all along the dreamy chamber pass, 

As tho' it were a little toucht with awe 
(Being new-come into that (juiet place 
In such a quiet way) at the strange grace 

or that pale lady, and what else it saw ; — 

Rare flowers : narcissi ; irises, each crown'd ; 

Red oleander blossoms ; hyacinths 
Flooding faint fragrance, ri(;hly curl'd all round, 

Corinthian, cool cohmiiiar flowers on plinths ; 
Waxen Camelias, white ai»d crimson ones ; 

And amber lili(^s, and the regal rose. 

Which for the breast of queens full-scornful 
grows ; 
All pinnacled in urns of carven bronze: 

Tables of inwrought stone, true Florentine, — 
Olympian circles throng'd with Mercuries, 

Miniirvas, little Junos dug i' the green 

Of ruin'd Rome ; and Juno's own rich eyes 

Vivid on peacock plumes Sidonian : 

A ribbon'd lute, young INIusic's cradle: books, 
Vcjllum'd and claspt : and with bewilder'd looks, 

Madonna's picture, — the old smile grown wan. 

From bloomed thickets, firelly-lamp'd, beneath 

The terrace, (luted cool the nightingale. 
In at the open window came the breath 

Of nifiny a balmy, dim blue, dreaming vale. 
At intervals the howlet's note came clear. 

Fluttering dark silence thro' the cypress grove. 

An infant breeze from the elf-limd of Love, 
Lured by the dewy hour, crept, lisping, near. 



42 TllK WANDKRKH. 

Ancl now is all the niixht her own, to iniko it 

Or grave or nay with throuirs of" wakino- di-oanis. 
Now grows her heart so ripe, a siLih might shake it 

To showers of fruit, all golden as beseems 
Hesperian growth. Why not, on nights like this, 

Should Daphne out from yon green laurel slip ? 

A Dryad t'n)ni the ilex, with white hip 
Quiver'd ami thonii'd to hunt with Arteinis V 

To night, what wonder were it, while such shadows 
Are taking up such shapes on moonlit moun- 
tains, 

Sueh star-tlies kindling o'er low emerald meadows, 
Sueh voiees floating out of h'll-side fountains. 

If some full faee should from the winilow greet 
her. 
Whose eyes should be new planetary lights, 
AVhose voiee a well of liipiid love-delights. 

And to the distanee sigliimily entreat her? 



EROS. 

"Wir.VT wonder that I loved her thus, that night ? 
The Immortals know eaeh other at tirst sight. 
And Love is of them. 

In the fading light 
Of that delieious eve, whose stars even yet 
(tild the long dre;imless nights, and eannot set, 
She passed me, thro' the silenee: all her hair, 
Iter waving, warm, bright hair negh'etfully 
Pour'd round her snowy throat, as without eare 
Of its own beauty. 

And when she turn'd on me 
The sorrowing light of desolate eyes divine, 
1 knew in a moment what our lives must be 
Henceforth. It lighten'd on me then and there. 



INDIAN LOVE .^ONG. 4.'i 

How she was irretrievably all niii\e, 
I hers, — thro' time, become eterniiy. 
It could not ever have been otherwise, 
(iaziug into those eyes. 

And if, before I «:azed on them, my soul, 
Oblivious of her destiuy, had follow'd, 
In days tbrever silent, the control 
Of any beauty less divinely hallow'd 
Than that upon her beautiful white brows, 
(The serene sunmiits of all earthly sweetness !) 
Strai<>htway the records of all other vows 
Of idol-worshi]) faded silently 
Out of the foldino; leaves of memory, 
Forever and Ibrever ; and my heart became 
Pure white at once, to keep in its completeness, 
And i)erfect purity, 
llcr mystic name. 



INDIAN LOVE SONG. 

My body sleeps : my heart awakes. 

My lij)S to breathe thy name are mowd 
In slumber's ear: then sluml»er breaks; 

And I am drawn to thee, beloved. 
Thou (h'awest me, thou drawest me. 

Thro' slei^), thro' night. I hear the rilh- 

And hear the k'oj)ard in the hills, 
And down the dark I feel to thee. 

The vineyards and the villajjes 

Were silent in the vales, tlie rocks. 

I ibllowed past the myrrhy trees. 
And by the footsteps of the Hocks. 

AVild honey, dropt from stone to stone. 
Where bees have been, my i)ath suggcst< 



44 THE WAN1)EK*EU. 

The winds are in the eagles' nests. 
The moon is hid. I walk alone. 

Thou drawest me, thou drawest me 

Across the glimmerinij; wildernesses, 
And drawest me, my love, to thee, 

With ilove's eyes hidden in thy tresses. 
The world is many : my love is one. 

1 find no likeness for my love. 

The cinnamons grow in the grove : 
The Golden Tree grows all alone. 

who Lath seen lier wondrous hair? 
Or seen my dove's eyes in the woods'? 

Or found her voice upon the air ? 

Her steps along the solitudes ? 
Or where is beauty like to hers ? 

She draweth me, she draweth me. 

1 sought her by the incense-tree, 
And in the aloes, and in the firs. 

Where art thou, O my heart's delight. 
With dove's eyes hidden in thy locks ? 

]\ly hair is wet with dews of niglit. 
JMy feet are torn u[)on the rocks. 

The cedarn scents, the spices, fail 

About me. Strange and stranger seems 
The path. There comes a sound of streams 

Above the darkness on the vale. 

No trees drop gums ; but poison llowers 
From rifts and cletts all round me fall. 

The perfumes of thy midnight bowers, 
The fragrance of thy chambers, all 

Is drawing me, is drawing me. 

Thy baths prepare ; anoint thine hair : 
0[)en the window : meet me there : 

1 come to thee, to thee, to thee I 



MORNING AND MEETING. 45 

Thy lattices are dark, my own. 

Thy doora are still. My love look out. 
Arise, my dove with tender tone. 

The camphor-clusters all about 
Are whitening. Dawn breaks silently. 

And all my spirit, with the dawn 

Expands; and, slowly slowly drawn. 
Thro' mist and darkness moves toward thee. 



MORNING AND MEETING. 

One yellow star, the largest and the last 
Of all the lovely night, was fading slow 

(As fades a happy moment in the past) 

Out of the changing east, when, yet aglow 

With dreams her looks made magical, from sleep 
I waked ; and oped the lattice. Like a rose 
All the red-opening morning 'gan dis(.'lose 

A ripen'd light upon the distant steep. 

A bell was chiming thro' the crystal air 

From the high convent-church upon the hill. 
The folk were loitering by to matin prayer. 

The church-bell call'd me out, and seem'd to fill 
The air with little hopes. I reach'd the door 

Before the chauntcd hynm began to rise. 

And float its li(piid latin melodies 
O'er pious groups about the marble floor. 

Breathless, I slid among the kneeling folk. 

A little bell went tinkling thro' the pause 
Of inward i)ra}er. Then forth the low chaunt 
broke 

Among the glooming aisles, that thro' a gauze 
Of sunlight glimmer'd. 



A{\ riiK w \M)1j:kk. 

'n.icklv ihn.l.l.M .Mv blood. 
1 saw, (li\rk-ti"('ssiMl in llu' I'osf-lil sliadc, 
Many a littlo dusk lialian maid, 
Kni'idinj:; willi I'l'ivciit l'ar(> clost" wlioro I stdod. 

'V\h' M\o^nin^■, all a n»is(y splendour, shook 
OiHM) in the nn«2;hty winiUnv's llanu>-lit wobs. 

It touch 'd tlu> t'l-own'd A|u)stli> with his hook, 
And bri^hten'd wIumt the sea of' jasper ebbs 

About those Saints' white I'eet tliat stand serene 
Isaeh with his lej^cnd, ea(d» in his own hue 
Attii-'d : some beryl-j^'olden : sa|>phiit'-bbie 

Some : and some luby-red : sonii' iMuerald-ureen. 

\\'lieitdronj, in rainbow-wreatlu's, the lii h liuht 
rollM 

Atoui the sm>wy altar, sparklini>; tdoan. 
Thi^ orpin ii,i'oanM and piui'd, then, <;rowin<i bold, 

Kevell'd the cherubs' <j;ohlon win«is atween. 
Ami in -the liuht, beneath the music, kneel'd 

(As pale as sonic stone ^'ir^'in bendiuii' st)len\n 

Out o( the red n'leam ot' a ii'ranile cobmuO 
Irene with clasjit liands and cold lips scal'd. 

As owe who, pausing on some mouulain-heinht. 
Above the bn^e/c that breaks o'er vincvai'd 
walls, 

Lt»at»s to the impulse ol' a wild delight, 

IU>ws I'arthward, I'l^els tln> hills 1h>w tc>o, and 
falls - 

1 tli'i>pt lu'side luM\ l<\>elinii scem'd to t'xpand 
And closi> : a mist ol' nuisic liU'd the air: 
And, when it i-eased in hcav»M\, I was aware 

That, thro' a ra|)turi», I had torn ht her hand. 



innyy am» i.iai 



IIK ('LOUD. 



\Vi III slmpti lo ,sli;i|)t', all tluy, 

And cliaii^ic^ (o changes by Ibiclaiid, liilli, and li.iy, 
'riii^ cloud conn's down (Vom wandi'i iiii; willi ilm 
wind, 
'i'lii'o' {j^looiu and i^Icani across llic j^rccii waslt^ 
seas ; 
And, U'av'm;;; llic whilo clilVand lone Iowim- liarr 
To ('iu|)ly ail-, 

SlipH down (lie wiiidlcss W('sl,aiid jj^^rows dc- 
(iiicd 
In splciidoiir Ity d('}i,i(M'H. 

And, hlowii by CiVCM'y wind 

( )!" wonder tbro' all rofiioiiH oC llic! mind, 

l''i'oni liopci lo lear, Iroin doidtl. to swcd, dcNpilc, 
( 'lian^iiifi; all nlia|K',s, and niin^lin;^ snow willi 
(ire, 
'riic tlion;i,lit of licp (b'secnds, ,slr«^|)S o'er llui bonnds 
< )!' passion, j^rows, ami ronmis 

Its <j;old('n onllincs in a, j;ra<lnal ii;^lil. 
or still dcsiiv. 



IIOO'I' AN!) I.MAK. 

Tin: lovr. thai deep williin iwv. lies 
llnmovtMl abides in con.si'ions power ; 

Yet in {\w lieaven oC tliy svveel eyes 
It varies every lionr. 



A look Croin then will (Insli tlie elieek 
A word oflliim^ awaken tea,rs : 

And, all, in all 1 do and sptuik 
How Trail my lovo appears ! 



48 THE WANDERER. 

In yonder treo, Belov'd, whose boughs 
Are household both to earth and heaven, 

Whose leaves have murmur'd of our vows 
To many a balmy even, 

The branch that wears the liveliest green, 
Is shaken by the restless bird ; 

The leaves that nighest heaven are seen, 
By every breeze are stirr'd : 

But storms may rise, and thunders roll. 
Nor move the giant roots below ; 

So, from the bases of the soul. 
My love for thee doth grow. 

It seeks the heaven, and trembles there 
To every light and passing breatl) ; 

But from the heart no storm can tear 
Its rooted growth beneath. 



WARNINGS. 

Beware, beware of witchery ! 

And fall not in the snare 
That lurks and lies in wanton eyes, 

Or hides in golden hair : 
For the Witch hath sworn to catch thee. 
And her spells are on the air. 
" Thou art fair, fair, fatal fair, 
O Irene ! 

What is it, what is it. 

In the whispers of the leaves ? 
In the night wind, when its bosom, 

With the shower in it, grieves '? 



WARNINGS. 49 

In the breaking of the breaker, 
As it breaks upon the beach 
Thro' the silence of the night ? 

Cordelia ! Cordelia ! 
A warning in my ear — 
*' Not here ! not here ! not here ! 
But seek her yet, and seek her, 
Seek her ever out of reach, 
Out of reach, and out of sight ! " 

Cordelia ! 
Eyes on mine, when none can view me ! 
And a magic murmur thro' me ! 
And a presence out of Fairyland, 
Invisible, yet near ! 
Cordelia ! 
*' In a time Avhich hath not been : 
In a land thou hast not seen : 

Thou shalt find her, but not now : 
Thou shalt meet her, but not here : " 

Cordelia ! Cordelia ! 
" In the falling of the snow : 
In the fading of the year : 

When the light of hope is low, 
And the last red leaf is sere." 
' Cordelia ! 

And my senses lie asleep, fast asleep, 

O Irene ! 
In the chambers of this Sorceress, the South. 
In a slumber dim and deep. 

She is seeking yet to keep. 
Brimful of poison'd perfumes, 

The shut blossom of my youth. 
O fatal, fatal fair Irene ! 

But the whispering of the leaves. 
And the night wind, when it grieves 
And the breaking of the breaker, 
As it breaks upon the beach 
4 



50 THE WANDERER. 

Thro' the silence of the night, 

Cordeha ! 
IVhisper ever in my ear 
" Not here ! not here ! not here ! 
But awake, O wanderer ! seek her 
Ever seek her out of reach, 
Out of reach, and out of si<;ht ! " 
Cordeha ! 

There is a star above me 

Unlike all the millions round it. 
There is a heart to love me. 
Altho' not yet 1 have found it. 
And awhile, 

O Cordelia, Cordelia ! 
A light and careless singer, 
In the subtle South I linger, 

While the blue is on the mountain. 
And the bloom is on the peach, 
And the fire-lly on the night, 

Cordelia ! 
But my course is ever norward, 
And a\vhisi)er whispers " Forward ! " 
Arise, O wanderer, seek her. 
Seek her ever out of reach, 
Out of reach and out of sight I 
Cordelia ! 
Out of sight, 

Cordelia ! Cordelia ! 

Out of reach, out of sight, 
Cordelia ! 



A FANCY. 51 



A FANCY. 



How sweet were life, — thU life, if we 
(My love and I) niiLsht dwell together 

Here beyond the siniimer sea, 
In the heart of summer weather ! 

With pomegranates on the bough, 
And with lilies in the bower; 

And a sight of distant snow, 
llosy in the sunset hour. 

And a little house, — no more 

In state than suits two quiet lovers ; 

And a woodbine round the door, 

Where the swallow builds and hovers 

With a silver sickle-moon, 

O'er hot gardens, red with roses : 

And a window wide, in June, 

For serenades when evening closes : 

In a chamber cool and simple, 

Trellised light from roof to basement; 

And a sunnncr wind to dimple 

The white curtain at the casement: 

AVhere, if we at midnight wake, 
A green acacia-tree shall quiver 

In the moonlight, o'er some lake 

Where nightingales sing songs forever. 

With a pine-wood dark in sight; 

And a bean-field climbing to us, 
To make odours faint at night 

Where we roam with none to view us. 



52 Til K • WAN DE 11 E R . 

And a convent on the liill, 

Throiiijjli its light green olives peeping 
In cleur sunlight, and so still, 

All the nuns, you'd say, -were sleeping. 

Seas at distance, seen beneatli 
Grated garden-wildernesses ; — 

Not so far but what their breath 

At eve may fan my darling's tresses. 

A ]>iano, soft in sound, 

To make music when speech wanders, 
Poets reverently bound, 

O'er whose i)ages rapture ponders. 

Canvas, brushes, hues, to catch 
Fleeting forms in vale or mountain : 

And an evening star to Avatch 

When all's still, save one sweet fountain. 

Ah ! I idle time away 

With imjjossible Ibnd fancies ! 

For a lover lives all day 
In a land of lone romances. 

But the hot light o'er the city 
I)ro])s — and see ! on fire departs. 

And the night comes down in pity 
To the longing of our hearts. 

Bind thy golden hair from falling, 
O my love, my one, my own ! 

'Tis for thee the cuckoo's calling 
With a note of tenderer tone. 

Up the hill-side, near and nearer, 

'IMirough the vine, the corn, the flowers. 

Till the very air grows dearer. 

Neighbouring our pleasant bowers. 



ONCE. 53 



Now I pass llie last Podere : 
There, tlio city lies beliind me. 

See her ilntterinn; like a fairy 
O'er the hapi)y grass to find me ! 



ONCE. 

A FALLING star that shot across 
The intricate and twinkling dark 

Vanisht, yet k\i\ no sense of loss 
Throughout the wide ethereal arc 

Of those serene and solemn skies 
'I'hat round the dusky j)rospect rose, 

And ever seem'd to rise, and rise, 
Through regions of unreach'd repose. 

Far, on the windless mountain-range, 
One (!rInison sparklet died : the blue 

Flush'd with a brilliance, faint and strange, 
The ghost of daylight, dying too. 

But half-reveal'd, each terrace urn 

(jlimmer'd, Avhere now, in filmy flight, 

We watch'd i-eturn, and still return, 
The blind bats searching air for sight. 

With sullen fits of fleeting sound, 
Borne half asleep on slumbrous air, 

The drowsy beetle humm'd around, 
And pass'd, and oft repass'd us, there ; 

Where, hand in hand, our looks alight 
With thoughts our pale lips left untold, 

We sat, in that delicious night. 

On that dim terrace, green and old. 



54 THE WANDERER. 

Deep down, for off, the city lay, 

When forth from all its spires was swept 

A music o'er our souls ; and they 
To music's midmost meanings leapt ; 

And, crushing some delirious cry 
Against each other's lips, we clung 

Together silent, while the sky 

Throbbing with sound around us hung: 

For, borne from bells on music soft. 

That solemn hour went forth thro' heaven, 

To stir the starry airs aloft. 

And thrill the purple pulse of even. 

O happy hush of heart to heart ! 

O moment molten thro' with bliss ! 
O Love, delaying long to part 

That first, fast, individual kiss ! 

Whereon two lives on glowing lips 
Hung- claspt, each feeling fold in fold, 

Like daisies closed with crimson tips. 
That sleep about a heart of gold. 

Was it some drowsy rose that moved ? 

Some dreaming dove's pathetic moan ? 
Or was it my name from lips beloved ? 

And was it thy sweet breath, mine own. 

That made me feel the tides of sense 
O'er life's low levels rise with might, 

And pour my being down the immense 
Shore of some mystic Infinite ? 

" Oh, have I found thee, my soul's soul ? 

My chosen forth from time and space ! 
And did we then break earth's control ? 

And have I seen thee face to face ? 



ONCE. 65 

" Close, closer to thy home, my breast, 

Closer thy darling arms enfold ! 
I need such wai-mth, for else the rest 

Of life will freeze me dead with cold. 

" Long was the search, the effort long, 
Ere I compell'd thee from thy sphere, 

I know not with what mystic song, 
I know not with what nightly tear : 

" Bnt thou art here, beneath whose eyes 
My passion falters, even as some 

Pale wizard's taper sinks, and dies, 
When to his spell a spirit is come. 

" My brow is pale with much of pain : 
Though I am young, my youth is gone : 

And, shouldst thou leave me lone again, 
I think I could not live alone. 

" As some idea, half divined. 

With tumult Avorks within the brain 

Of desolate genius, and the mind 
Is vassal to imperious pain, 

" For toil by day, for tears by night. 
Till, in the sphere of vision brought. 

Rises the beautiful and bright 

Predestined, but relentless Thought; 

" So, gathering up the dreams of years, 
Thy love doth to its destined seat 

Rise sovran, thro' the light of tears — 
Achieved, accomplisht, and complete ! 

" I fear not now lest any hour 

Should chill the lips my own have prest ; 
For I possess thee by the power 

Whereby I am myself possest. 



50 THE WANDKUKR. 



" These eyes must lose their onidinn; Ijnrht : 
Those li]>s from thim*, I know, must sever 

Oh looks and lips may disunito, 
lUit over love is love Ibrovor!" 



SINCE. 

WoRT>s like to those were said, or droam'd 
(How long since!) on a nioht divine, 

By lips from which sucli rai)ture streamed 
I cannot doom those lij)s were mine. 

The (lay comes \\\) ahovo the roofs, 
All sallow from a nii>ht of rain ; 

The sound of foot, and wheels, and hoofs 
In the blurr'd street begins again : 

The same old toil — no end — no aim ! 

The same vile babble in my oars ; 
The same unmeaning smiles: the same 

Most miserable dearth of tears. 

The same dull sound : the same dull lack 

Of lustre in the level gi'ay : 
It seems like Yesterday come back 

AV'ith his old things, and not To-day. 

But now and then her name will fall 
From careless lii)s with little ])raisc, 

On this dry shell, and shatter all 

The smooth indill'erence of my days. 

They chatter of her — deem her light — 
The apes and liars ! tlu'v who know 

As well to sound the unlathom'd Night 
As her impejietrablc woe ! 



SINCE. 57 

And here, wliere Slander's scorn is split, 

And <ijal)bling P\)lly clucks above 
Her addled e<x;jjs, it feels like «ruilt, 

To know that far away, my love 

Her heart on every heartless liour 
Is bruisinfj, break iiiij, for my sake : 

While, coil'd and nunib'd, and void of power, 
My life sleeps like a winter snake. 

I know that at the mid of ni^ht, 

(When she flinrjs by the ^litterinji; stress 

Of Piide, that mocks the viil<xar sijflit. 
And fronts her chandler's loneliness,) 

She bi-eaks in tears, and, overtlirown 
With sorrowing;, weeps the night away, 

Till back to liis uidovely throne 
Returns the unrelenting day. 

All treachery could devise liath wrouglit 
Against us : — letters robb'd and read : 

Snares hid in smiles : betrayal bought : 
And lies imputed to the (lead. 

I will arise, and go to her. 

And save her in her own despite ; 
For in my breast begins to stir 

A pulse of its old power and might. 

They cannot so have slander'd me 

But what, I know, if I should call 
And stretch my arms to her, that she 

Would rush into them, s[)ite of all. 

In Life's great lazar-honse, each breath 
We breathe may bring or s])read the pest ; 

And, woman, each may catch his death 
From those that lean upon his breast. 



58 TlIK WANDERER. 

I know hoAv tcmlor iVioiuls of me 

Have talk'd with broUoii hint, and glancG : 
— The choicest llowors ot'cahnnny, 

That sccni, like weeds, to sj^ring tVom chance 

That small, small, imperce]itil)le 

Sniail talk, Avhich cuts like ])Owder'd glass 
Ground in Tophana— none can tell 

Where lui-ks the power the poison has ! 

1 may be worse than they would prove, 
()Vho knows the worst of any man V) 

But, right or wrong, be sure my love 
Is not what they conceive, or can. 

Nor do 1 (piestion what thou art. 
Nor what thy life, in great or small. 

Thou art, 1 know, Avhat all my heart 
IMust beat or break ibr. That is all. 



A LOVE LETTER. 

]My love, — my chosen, — but not mine ! I send 
My whole heart to thee in these words 1 write; 

So let the blotted lines, my soul's sole friend, 
Lie upon thine, and there be blest at night. 

This llower, whose bruised purple blood will stain 
The page now wet with the hot tears that fall — 

(Tnileed, indeed, I struggle to restrain 

This weakness, but the tears come, spite of all !) 

1 pluck'd it from the branch you used to praise, 
The branch that hules the wall. I tend your 
llowers. 

I keep the paths we paced in happier days. 
How long ago they seem, those pleasant hours ! 



A LOVE LETTER. 59 

The white laburnum's out. Your judas-tree 
Bejijins to shed those crimson buds of his. 

The niglitinfrah;s sinj; — ah, too joyously ! 

Who says those birds are sad V I tfunk there is 

That in the books we read, whicdi deeper wrings 
My heart, so they lie dusty on the shelf. 

Ah me, I meant to speak of other things 

Less sad. In vain ! they bring me to myself. 

I know your patience. And I would not cast 
New shade on days so dark as yours are grown 

By weak and wild rej)iiiing ibr the, past, 
Since it is past Ibrcver, O mine own ! 

For hard enough the daily cross you bear, 
Without that deeper pain reflection brings ; 

And all too sore the fretful household care. 
Free of the contrast of remember'd things. 

But ah ! it little profits, that we thrust 

From all that's said, what both must feel, un- 
named. 

Better to face it boldly, as we must, 

Than feel it in the silence, and be shamed. 

Irene, I have loved you, as men love 

Light, music, odour, beauty, love itself; — 

Whatever is apart from, and above 

Those daily needs which deal with dust and pelf. 

And I had been content, without one thought 
Our guardian angels could have blusht to know, 

So to have lived and died, demanding nought 
Save, living dying, to have loved you so. 

My youth was orphan'd, and my age will be 
Childless. 1 have no sister. None, to steal 

One stray thought from the many thoughts of thee, 
Which are the source of all I think and feel. 



CO TllK AV.\M>Kin:u, 

My wildest Avisli was vassal to thy will : 

IMy hauiihtiost hopo, a ponsiouor on tliy smile, 

Wliioli (lid with liiiht my barren heino- (ill, 
As moonliiiht glorifies some desert isle. 

I never thonght to know what T have known, — 
The raptnre, dear, orbein;:!: loved by yon : 

I never thonght, within my lu>art, to own 

One wish so blest that yon shonld share it too : 

Nor ever did 1 deen\. eon(ein])latini>- 

The many sorrows in this place ot']>ain, 

80 strange a sorrow to my lite eould eling. 
As, being thus loved, to be beloved in vain. 

l>nt now we know the best, the Avorst. AVo liavc 
Interr'd, and ]>rematnrely, and unknown, 

Our youth, our hearts, our hopes, in one small 
grave, 
"Whence we must wander, Avidow'd, to our own. 

And it' we comfort not eai-h other, what 

Shall comtbrt ns, in the dark days to come ? 

Not the light laughter of the Avorld, and not 
The taees and the lirelight of (bnd home. 

And so T write to you ; and write, and write, 
Vov tlie mere sake of writing to you, dear. 

AVhat can 1 tell yon, that yon know not ? Night 
Is deepening thro' the rosy atmosphere 

About the lonely easement of this room. 

Which you have left tamlliar with the grace 

That grows where you have been. And on the 
gloom 
1 ahuost fancy I can see your face. 

Not pale with pain, and tears restraln'd for me, 
As when 1 last beheld it ; but as first. 



A LOVK LKTTKK. Gl 

A (Ircarn ofr;i[)tMrc and of f)f)0.sy, 

Ul)Oii Jiiy youth, like (Jawti on dark, it burst. 

rercliancc I sliall not ever sec ajijain 

'J'liat lace. I know tliat 1 shall never see 

Its radiant bcjauty as f saw it then, 
Save by tins lonely lamp of memory, 

Willi childhood's starry graces lingering yet 
'I the rosy orient of young womanhood ; 

And eyes like woodland vi(jlets newly wet ; 
And li[)S that left their meaning in my blood ! 

I will not say to you what I might say 

To one less worthily loved, less worthy love. 

I will not say ..." Forget the f)ast. Be gay. 
And let the all ill-judging world api)rove 

Light in your eyes, and laught(!r on your lij)." 
1 will not say ..." Dissolve i;i thought forever 

Our sorrowful, but sacre<l, fellowship." 

For that would be, to bid you, dear, dissever 

Your nature from its nobler heritage 
In consolations register'd in heaven, 

For griefs this world is barren to assuage, 

And ho[)es to which, on earth, no home is 
given. 

But J would whis[)cr, what for evermore 

My own heart whisp(;rs thro' (he wakeful night, . . . 

" This grief is but a shadow, flung before, 
From some relulgent substance out of sight." 

Wherefore it happens, in this riddling world. 
That, where sin came not, sorrow yet should be ; 

Why heaven's most hurtful thunders should be 
hurl'd 
At what seems noblest in humanity ; 



62 THE WANDERER. 

And Ave are punish'd for our purest deeds, 

And eluisten'd tor our holiest thoughts; . . . alas ! 

There is no reason found in all the creeds, 

Why these things are, nor whence they come to 
pass. 

But in the heart of man, a secret voice 

There is, which speaks, and will not be restraln'd, 

Which cries to Grief . . " weep on, while I rejoice, 
Knowing that, somewhere, all will be explained." 

I will not cant that commonplace of friends, 

AVhich never yet hath dried one mourner's tears, 

Nor say that grief's slow wisdom makes amends 
For broken hearts and desolated years. 

For who would barter all he hopes from life, 

To be a little wiser than his kind ? 
AVho arm his nature for continued strife, 

AVhere all he seeks for hath been left behind '? 

But I would say, O pure and perfect pearl 
Which I have dived so deep in life to find, 

Lock'd in my heart thou liest. The wave may curl, 
The wind may wail above us. AVave and wind, 

What are their storm and strife to me and you ? 

No strife can mar the pure heart's inmost calm. 
This lite of ours, what is it ? A very few 

Soon-ended years, and then, — the ceaseless 
l)salm. 

And the eternal sabbath of the soul ! 

Hush ! . . . while 1 write, from the dim Carmine 
The midnight angelus begins to roll. 

And lloat athwart the darkness up to me. 

]\Iy messenger (a man by danger tried) 

Waits in the courts below ; and ere our star 



A LOVE LETTER. 63 

Upon the forehead of the dawn hath died, 
Beloved one, this letter will be far 

Athwart the mountain, and the mist, to you. 

I know each robber hamlet. 1 know all 
This mountain people. 1 have friends, both true 

And trusted, sworn to aid whate'er befall. 

I have a bark upon the gulf. And I, 
If to my heart I yielded in this hour, 

Might say ..." Sweet fellow-sullerer, let us fly ! 
1 know a little isle whieh doth embower 

A home where exiled angels might forbear 
A while to mourn for Paradise." . . . But no ! 

Never, whate'er fate now may briftg us, dear, 
Shalt thou reproach me for that only woe 

Which even love is powerless to console ; 

Which dwells where duty dies : and haunts the 
tomb 
Of life's abandon'd purpose in the soul ; 

And leaves to hope, in heaven itself, no room. 

Man cannot make, but may ennoble, fate. 
By nobly bearing it. So let us trust 

Not to ourselves but God, and calmly wait 
Love's orient, out of darkness and of dust. 

Farewell, and yet again farewell, and yet 
Never farewell, — if farewell mean to fare 

Alone and disunited. Love hath set 
Our days, in music, to the selfsame air ; 

And I shall feel, wherever we may be, 
Even tho' in absence and an alien clime. 

The shadow of the sunniness of thee. 

Hovering, in patience, through a clouded time. 



G4 THE AVANDERER. 

Farewell ! The dawn is rising, and the light 
Is making, in the east, a faint endeavour 

To illuminate the mountain peaks. Good night. 
Thine OAvn, and only thine, my love, forever. 



CONDEMNED ONES. 

Above thy child I saw thee bend, 
Where in that silent room we sat apart. 
I watch'd the involuntary tear descend ; 
The fire-light was not all so dim, my friend, 
But I could read thy heart. 

Yet when, in that familiar room, 

I strove, so moveless in my place. 

To look with comfort in thy face, 

That child's young smile was all that I could sec 

Ever between us in the thoughtful gloom, — 

Ever between thyself and me, — 

With its bewildering grace. 

Life is not what it might have been. 

Nor are we what we would ! 

And we must meet with smiling mien, 

And part in careless mood. 

Knowing that each retains unseen. 

In cells of sense subdued, 

A little lurking secret of the blood — 

A little serpent-secret rankling keen — 

That makes the heart its food. 

Yet is there much for grateful tears, if sad ones ! 
And Hope's young orphans Memory mothers yet ; 
So let them go, the sunny days we had once, 
Our night hath stars that will not ever set. 
Aiud inour hearts are harps, albeit not glad ones. 



CONDEMNED ONES. 65 

Yet not all unmelodious, thro' whose strings 
The night-winds murmur their familiar things, 
Unto a kindred sadness : the sea brings 
The spirits of its solitude, with wings 
Folden about the music of each lyre, 
Thrill'd with deep duals by sublime desire, 
Which never can attain, yet ever must aspire, 
And glorify regret. 

What might have been, I know, is not: 
What must be, must be borne : 
But, ah ! what hath been will not be forgot. 
Never, oh ! never, in the years to follow ! 
Tho' all their summers light a waste forlorn. 
Yet shall there be (hid from the careless swallow 
And shelter'd from the bleak wind in the thorn) 
In Memory's mournful, but beloved hollow, 
One dear green spot ! 

Hope, the high will of Heaven 

To help us hath not given. 

But more than unto most of consolation : 

Since heart from heart may borrow 

Healing for deep heart-sorrow. 

And draw from yesterday, to soothe to-morrow, 

The sad, sweet divination 

Of that unutter'd sympathy, which is 

Love's sorceress, and for Love's dear sake. 

About us both such spells doth make. 

As none can see, and none can break, 

And none restrain ; — a secret pain 

Claspt to a secret bliss ! 

A tone, a touch, 
A little look, may be so much ! 
Those moments brief, nor often. 
When, leaning laden breast to breast. 
Pale cheek to cheek, life, long represt. 
May gush with tears that leave half blest 
6 



6Q THE WANDERER. 

The want of bliss tliey soften- 
The little glance across the crowd, 
None else can read, wherein there lies 
A life of love at once avow'd — 
The embrace of pining eyes. . . . 
So little more had made earth heaven, 
That hope to help us was not given ! 



THE STORM. 

Both hollow and hill were as dumb as death, 
While the skies were silently changing form ; 
And the dread forecast of the thunder-storm 

Made the crouch'd land hold in its breath. 

But the monstrous vapour as yet was unriven 
That was breeding the thunder and lightning 

and rain ; 
And the wind that was waiting to ruin the plain 

Was yet fast in some far hold of heaven. 

So, in absolute absence of stir or strife, 
The red land lay as still as a drifted leaf: 
The roar of the thunder had been a relief, 

To the calm of that death-brooding life. 

At the wide-flung casement she stood full height, 
With her long rolling hair tumbled all doAvn her 

back ; 
And, against the black sky's supernatural black, 

Her white neck gleam'd scornfully white. 

I could catch not a gleam of her anger'd eyes, 
(She was sullenly watching the slow storm roll,) 
But I felt they were drawing down into her soul 

The thunder that darken'd the skies. 



THE STORM. 67 

And how could I feifin, in that heartless gloom, 
To be carelessly reading that stupid page ? 
What harm, if I flung it in anguish and rage, 

Her book, to the end of the room ? 

"And so, do we part thus forever ?"...! said ; 

" Oh ! speak only one word, and I pardon the 
rest ! " , 

She drew her white scarf tighter over her breast, 
But she never once turned round her head. 

" In this wicked old world is there naught to dis- 
dain ? 
Or " — I groaned — " are those dark eyes such 

deserts of blindness, 
That, O Woman ! your heart must hoard all its 
unkindness. 
For the man on whose breast it hath lain ? 

" Leave it nameless, the grave of the grief that is 
past ; 
Be its sole sign the silence we keep for its sake. 
I have loved you — lie still in my heart till it 
break : 
As I loved, I must love to the last. 

" Speak ! the horrible silence is stifling my soul." 
She turned on me at once all the storm in her 

eyes ; 
And I heard the low thunder aloof in the skies, 

Beginning to mutter and roll. 

She turn'd — by the lightning reveal'd in its glare, 
And the tempest had clothed her with terror : it 

clung 
To the folds of her vaporous garments, and 
hung 
In the heaps of her heavy wild hair. 



()S TllK \YANnKUi:U. 

But Olio ■word broke (ho silouoo ; but one ; and it 
tell 
With the Aveiglit ol' a niountaln upon ine. Next 

nunnoiit 
The tii'roo lovin llashM in my eyes. From my 
c'ommont 
She was g-onc when 1 lurn'd. Who oan tell 

How 1 iiot to my home on the mountain ? I know 
That the thuiuler was rolling, the lightning still 

llashing. 
The groat bolls wore tolling, my very brain 
orashlng 
In my head, a tow hours ago : 

Then all liush'd. In the distanoe the blue rain rc- 
oeilod ; 
And the tVagmonts of storm wore spread out on 

the hills; 
Hard by, from my lattioo, 1 hoard the far rills 
Leaping down their rook-ohannols, wild-weeded. 

The round, nnl moon was yet low in the air. . . . 
Oh, I know it, foresaw it, ami felt it, before 
I hoard her light hand on the latoh of the door ! 

When it opon'd at last, — she was there. 

Childlike, and wistful, and sorrowful-eyed, 

With the rain on her hair, and the rain on her 

ohook ; 
She knelt down, with her fair forehead fallen and 
meek 
In the light of the moon at my side. 

And she oall'd mo by every oaressing old name 
She of old had inventeil and ohosen for me : 
She eroneh'd at my feet, with her cheek on my 
knee. 

Like a wild thing grown suddenly tame. 



TIIK VAMl'VRK. 69 

In the world tliere arc women enough, maids or 
niotfiers ; 
Yet, in multiplied millions, I never should find 
The symbol of" aught in her face, or her mind. 

She has notiiing in common with others. 

And she loves me ! Tliis morning the earth, press'd 
beneatli 
Her light foot, keeps the pi-int. 'Twas no vision 

last night, 
For the lily she dropj)'(J, as she went, is yet 
white 
With the dew on its delicate sheath ! 



THE VAMPYRE. 

I FOUND a corpse, with gold(!n hair. 

Of a maiden seven months dead. 
But the face, with the death in it, still was fair, 

And the lips with their love were red. 

Rose leaves on a snow-drift shed, 

Blood-droi>s by Adonis bled, 

Doubtless were not so red. 

I comb'd her hair into curls of gold, 

And I kiss'd her lips till her lips were warm ; 
And 1 bathed her body in moonlight cold, 

Till she grew to a living form : 
Till she stood up }>old to a magic of old, 

And walk'd to a mutter'd charm — 

Life-like, without alarm. 

And she walks by me, and she talks by me, 

Evermore, night and day ; 
For she loves me so, that, wlierever I go, 

She follows me all the way — 



70 THE WANDERER. 

This corpse — you would almost say 
There pined a soul in the clay. 

Her eyes are so bright at the dead of night 

That they keep me awake with dread ; 
And my life-blood foils in my veins, and pales 

At the sight of her lips so red : 
For her foce is as white as the pillow by night 

Where she kisses me on my bed : 

All her gold hair outspread — 

Neither alive nor dead. 

I would that this woman's head 

Were less gohlen about the hair : 
I would her lips were less red, 

And her face less deadly fair. 

For this is the worst to bear — 

How came that redness there ? 

'Tis my heart, be sure, she eats for her food ; 

And it makes one's whole llesh creep 
To think that she drinks and drains my blood 

Unawares, when I am asleep. 

How else could those red lips keep 

Their redness so damson-deep ? 

There's a thought like a serpent, slips 
Ever into my heari't and head, — 

There are plenty of women, alive and human, 
One migiit woo, if one wish'd, and wed — 

Women with hearts, and brains, — ay, and lips 
Not so very terribly red. 

But to house with a corpse — and she so fair ! 
AVith that dim, unearthly, golden hair. 

And those sad, serene, blue eyes. 
With their looks from who knows where, 
Which Death has made so wise, 

W^ith the grave's own secret there — 
It is more than a man can bear ! 



CHANGE. 71 

It were better for me, ere I came nigh her, 

This corpse— ere I look'cl upon her, 
Had they burn'd my body in flame and fire 

With a sorcerer's dishonour. 
For when the Devil hath made his lair, 

And lurks in the eyes of a fair young woman, 
(To grieve a man's soul with her golden hair 
And break his heart, if his heart be human,) 
Would not a saint despair 
To be saved by fast or prayer 
From perdition made so fair ? 



CHANGE. 

She is unkind, unkind ! 

On the Avindy hill, to-day, 

I sat in the sound of the wind. 

I knew what the wind would say. 

It said ... or seemed to my mind . . . 

*' The flowers are falling away. 

The summer," ... it said, ..." will not stay, 

And Love will be left behind." 

The swallows were swinging themselves 
In the leaden-gray air aloft ; 
Flitting by tens and twelves, 
And returning oft and oft ; 
Like the thousand thoughts in me, 
That went, and came, and went. 
Not letting me even be 
Alone with my discontent. 

The hard-vext weary vane 
Rattled, and moan'd and was still. 
In the convent over the plain. 
By the side of the windy hill. 



72 THE WANDEREK. 

It was sad to hoar it complain 
So tVotful, ami -sveak, aiul shrill, 
Ajrain, and auain, and in vain. 
While the Avinil ^Yas (.'haniiinu; his will. 

I thonght of our walks last summer 
By the eonvont-walls so oreen ; 
Of the first kiss stolen from her. 
With no one near to be seen. 
I thought (as we wamler'd on, 
Each of us waiting to speak) 
How the daylight'left us alone. 
And left his last light on her eheek. 

The plain was as cold and gray 

(With its villas like glimmering shells) 

As son\e north-oeean bay. 

All dumb in the ehureh were the bells. 

In the mist, half a league away, 

Lay the little white house where she dwelh 

I thought of her face so bright. 
By the firelight bending low 
O'er her work so neat and whte ; 
Of her singing so soft and slow ; 
Of her tender-toned '' (uKxl-night ; " 
But a very foAv nights ago. 

O'er the convent doors, I could see 

A pale and sorrowtul-eyed 

JNIadonna looking at me. 

As when Our Lord lirst died. 

There was not a lizard or spider 

To be seen on the broktMi walls. 

The ruts, with the rain, had grown wider, 

And' blacker since last night's falls. 

O'er the universal dulness 

There broke not a single beam. 

1 thought how my love at its fulness 

Had changed like a change in a dream. 



CIIANGIO. 73 

The olives Avere slieddiiiji; fast 
About nie to left and riuht, 
In the lap of the scornful blast 
Jilaek berries and leallets white. 
1 thouiiht'of the many romances 
One wintry word can blijiht ; 
Of the tender and timorous fancies 
By a cohl look put to ili^ht. 

How many noble deeds 
Strangled })erchance at their birth! 
The smoke of the burnini],- weeds 
Came up with the steam of the earth, 
From the red, wet ledj:;es of soil, 
And tlie sere vines, row over row, — 
And the vineyard-men at their toil, 
Who sang in the vineyard below. 

Last Sprin<T, while I thonjiht of her here, 
1 found a red rose on the hill. 
There it lies, wither'd and sere ! 
Let him trust to a woman who will. 

I thono'ht how her words had grown colder. 
And her fair fiice colder still, 
From the hour whose silence had told her 
What has left me heart-broken and ill ; 
And " Oh ! " I thought, ..." if I behold her 
Walking there with him under the hill !" 

O'er the mist, from the mournful city 
The blear lamps gleam'd aghast, — 
— " She hAs neither justice, nor Jiity," 
I thought, ..." all's over at last ! " 
The cold eve came. One star 
Thro' a ragged gray gaj) forlorn 
Fell down from some region afar, 
And sicken'd as soon as born. 
1 thought, •' How long and how lone 



74 TIIK W.\M>KUKU. 

'I'lio ycnrs will sihmu (o be, 

AVIkmi the last ol' \\vv looks is .!j;<»iu', 

Ami my heart is siU'iit in me! 

One streak of seornCiil n'old, 

In tlui cloudy and billowy west, 

lUirn'd with a light as cold 

As love in a mweh-wrongM breast. 

1 thonoht of her faee so lair; 

Of her perfect bosom and arm ; 

Of her deej) sweet eyes atul hair ; 

Of her breath so pure and warm ; 

Of her toot so fine and fairy 

Thro' the nu'adows where slie would pass ; 

Of the sweep of her skirts so airy 

And fragrant over the grass. 

1 thought ..." Can I live without her 

\\'hati>ver she do, or say V " 

I tlu)ught ..." Can 1 dare to doubt her, 

Now when I liave given away 

My whole self, body ami spirit. 

To keep, or to cast aside, 

'I'o dower or disinherit. — 

'1\) use as she may decide V " 

The ^V'est was beginning to close 
O'er the last light burning thei-o. 
1 thought ..." And when that goes, 
The dark will bo everywhere ! " 

Oh ! well is it hidden from man 
Whatever the Future may bring! 
The bells in the church began 
On a sudden to sound and swing. 
The chimes on the gust were caught, 
And roli'd u}) the windy height. 
1 rose, and return'il, and thought . . . 

" 1 SHALL NOT SKK IIKK TO-NIGIIT." 



SILENCE. 75 



A CHAIN TO WEAK. 

Away ! away ! The dream was vain. 

We meet too soon, or meet too late : 
Still wear, as best you may, the chain 

Your own hands forced about your fate, 
Who could not wait ! 

What ! . . . you liad <i;iven your life away 
Before you ibund what most life misses ? 

Forsworn the bridal dream, you say, 
Of that ideal love, whose kisses 

Are vain as this is ! 

Well, I liave left upon your mouth 
The seal I know must burn there yet ; 

My claim is set upon your youth ; 
My sign upon your soul is set ; — , 
Dare you forget ? 

And you'll haunt, T know, where music i)lays, 

Yet lind a pain in nmsic's tone ; 
You 11 blush, of course, when others praise 

That beauty scarcely now your own. 
What's done, is done ! 

For me, you say, the world is wide, — 
Too wide to find the grave I seek ! 

lOnough ! whatciver now betide, 

No greater pang can blanch my cheek. 
Hush ! ... do not speak. 



SILENCE. 

Words of fire, and words of scorn, 
I have written. Let them go ! 



7G rm: wani>i:kki;. 

^Vc^vils of love — heavt-brokiMi, iovu^ 
\\"\{\\ this strono- and siuUlon avoo. 
All n\y srorn, she oouUl m)t (hnibt, 
A\'as but love tuniM ineldo out. 

ISIUmioo, siUMU'O, still unstlrrM ; 

Loui;, uubrokon, uuoxplain'd : 
Not ouo wonl, one little Avonl, 

Kven to show her toueliM or paiuM 
Silenee, silence, all unbroken : 
Not a sound, a sign, a token. 

AVell, let silenee gathor round 

All this shatterM lite of mine. 
Shall 1 break it by a sound '? 

Let it grow, anil be ilivine — 
])ivine as that Prometheus kept 
AVhen for his sake the sea-nymphs wept. 

].et silence settle, still and deep ; 

As the mist, the thuniler-eloud, 
O'er the lonely blasteil steep, 

AVhieh the red bolt hath not bow'd, 
Settle, to drench out the star. 
And cancel the blue vales afar. 

In this silence I will sheathe 

The sharp edge and point of all ! 

Not a sigh my lips shall breathe ; 
Not a gioan, what'er betall. 

Anil let this swonled silence be 

A fence 'twixt prying tools and me. 

Let silenee be about her name. 

And o'er the things which once have been 
Let silence cover \ip my shame, 

And annul that lace, once seen 
In fatal lunn-s, and all the light 
Of those eyes extinguish quite. 



SILENCE. 77 

In silence, I go forth alone 

O'er the solemn mystery 
Of the deeds which, to be done,. 

Yet undone in the future lie. 
I peer in Time's hioh nests, and there 
Espy the callow brood of Care, 

The tledgeless nurslings of Regret, 
With beaks forever stretch'd for food : 

But why should I forecount as yet 
The ravage of that vulture brood V 

O'er all these things let silence stay, 

And lie, like snow, along my way. 

Let silence in this outraged heart 
Abide, and seal these lips Ibrever; 

Let silence dwell with me apart 
Lesidc^ the ever-babbling river 

Of that loud life in towns, that runs 

lilind to the changes of the suns. 

Ah ! from what most mournful star, 
^Vasting down on evening's edge. 

Or what barren isle afar 
Flung by on some bare ocean ledge, 

Came the wicked hag to us, 

That changed the fairy revel thus? 

There were sounds from sweet guitars 
Once, and lights from lamps of amber ; 

Both went uj) among the stars 

From many a perfumed palace-chamber. 

Suddenly the |)lai'e seem'd dead ; 

Light and nuisic both were lied. 

Darkness in each perfumed chamber ; 

Darkness, silence, in the stars; 
Darkness on the lamps of amber ; 

Silence in the sweet auitars : 



78 THE WANDERER. 

Darkness, silence, evermore 

Guard empty chamber, moveless door. 



NEWS. 

News, news, news, my gossiping friends ! 

I have wonderful news to tell, 
A lady, by me, her compliments sends; 

And this is the news from Hell : 

The Devil is dead. lie died resign'd, 

Tho' somewhat opprest by cares ; 
But his wife, my friends, is a woman of mind, 

And looks after her lord's affairs. 

I have just come back from that wonderful place, 
And kist hands with the Queen down there ; 

But 1 cannot describe Her Majesty's face, 
It has fiU'd me so with despair. 

The place is not what you might suppose : 

It is worse in some respects. 
But all that I heard there, I must not disclose, 
* For the lady that told me objects. 

The laws of the land are not Salique, 
But the King never dies, of course ; 

The new Queen is young, and pretty, and chic; 
There are women, I think, that are worse. 

But however that be, one thing I know, 

And this I am free to tell ; 
The Devil, my friends, is a woman, just now ; 

'Tis a woman that reigns in Hell. 



COUNT RINALDO RINALDI. 79 



COUNT RINALDO RINALDI. 

'Tis a dark-purple, moonlighted midnight : — 

There is music about on the air. 
And, where, thro' the water, fall flashing 

The oars of each gay gondolier, 
The lamp-lighted ripples are dashing, 

In the musical moonlighted air, 
To the music, in merriment ; washing, 

And splashing, the black marble stair 
That leads to the last garden-terrace. 

Where many a gay cavalier 
And many a lady yet loiter, 

Round the Palace in festival there. 

'Tis a terrace all paven mosaic, — 

Black marble, and green malachite ; 
Round an ancient Venetian Palace, 

Where the windows with lampions are bright. 
'Tis an evening of gala and festival, 

Music, and passion, and light. 
There is love in the nightingales' throats. 

That sing in the garden so well : 
There is love in the face of the moon : 
• There is love in the warm languid glances 

Of the dancers adown the dim dances : 
There is love in the low languid notes 

That rise into rapture, and swell, 
From viol, and flute, and bassoon. 

The tree that bends down o'er the water 

So black, is a black cypress tree. 
And the statue, there, under the terrace, 

Mnemosyne's statue must be. 
There comes a black gondola slowly 

To the Palace in festival there : 



so THK \VANl>Kl{i:U. 

Ami llio Count Uinaldo Rlnaldi • 

Has inounU>(l the blaok marble stair. 

There was nothiiiL!; hut. darkness, and midnight, 
And tempest, and storn\, in the breast, 

Of the Ccnint Uinaldo Uinaldi, 

As his loot o'er the blaek marble prest : — 

The gllmmerino- black marble stair 

^^'here the weed in the green ooze is I'linging, 

That leads to the garden vso lair, 

Where the nightingales softly are singing, — 
Where the minstrels new musie are stringing. 

And the dancers for dancing prepare. 

There rusth>s a robe of white satin : 

There's a footstep falls light by the stair: 
There rustles a robe of white satin : 

There's a gleaming of soft golden hair : 
And the Lady Irene Ivicasoli 

Stands near the ey[)ress tree there, — 

Near Mneuiosyne's statue so fair, — 
Tlu' Laily Irene Kicasoli, 

With the light in her long golden hair. 

And the nightingales siW'tly are singing 
In the mellow and moonlighted air; 

And the minstrels their vit)ls are stringing; 
Ai\il the dancers for dancing preiKire. 

" Siora," the Count said unto lu'r, 

" The shafts of ill-fortune pursue mo ; 

The old grief grows newer and newer, 
The old pangs are never at rest ; 
Anil the foes that have sworn to undo me 
Have left me no peai'c in my breast. 

They have slaniler'il, and wrong'd, and malign'd mc ; 
Tho' they broke not my sword in my hand, 

They have broken my heait in my bosom 
And sorrow mv viuith has unniann'd. 



COUNT RIXALDO KINALDI. 81 

Jiut r lovt; you, Irene, Irene, 

With such love as the wretched alone 
Can feel from the desert within them 

Which only the wnitched have known I 
And the heart of Kinaldo Kinahli 

J>r<!ads, i^ady, no frown but your own. 
To others be all that you are, love — 

A lady more lovely than most; 
■^I'o nic — be a fountain, a star, love. 

That li^ihls to his haven the lost ; 
A shrine that Avitli tend(;r devotion, 

^riie niarin(!r kncieling, doth deck 
With the dank weeds yi;t drippin;.' from ocean, 

And the last jewel saved from the wreck. 

" None heeds us beloved Irene ! 

None will mark if Ave linger or fly. 
Amid all the mad masks in yon revel, 

There is not an ear or an eye, — 
Not one, — that will gaze or will listen ; 

And save the small star in the sky 
Which, to light us, so softly doth glisten, 

There is none will pursue us, Irene. 

() love me, () save me, I die ! 
1 am thine, O be mine, O beloved ! 

" Fly with me, Irene, Irene ! 

The moon drops : the morning is near. 
My gondola waits ])y the garden 

And fleet is my own gondolier ! " 
W^hat the Lady Irene Kicasoli, 

liy Mnemosyne's statue in stone, 
AVlxire she leaned, 'neath the black cypress tree, 

To the Count Kinaldo Kinaldi 

Ii.e[)lied then, it never was known, 
And known, now, it never will be. 

liut the moon hath been melted in morning : 
And the lamps in the windows are dead : 
G 



82 THE WANDERER. 

And the gay cavaliers from the terrace, 

And the ladies they laugh'd with, are fled ; 
And the music is husht in the viols : 

And the minstrels, and dancers, are gone ; 
And the nightingales now in the garden, 

From singing have ceased, one by one : 
But the Count Rinaldo Rinaldi 

Still stands, where he last stood, alone, 
'Neath the black cypress tree, near the water, 

By Mnemosyne's statue in stone. 

O'er his spirit was silence and midnight, 

In his breast was the calm of despair. 
He took, with a smile, from a casket 

A single soft curl of gold hair, — 

A wavy warm curl of gold hair. 
And into the black-bosom'd water 

He flung it athwart the black stair. 
The skies they were changing above him ; 

The dawn, it came cold on the air ; 
He drew from his bosom a kerchief — 

" Would," he sighed, " that her face was less fair ! 

That her face was less hopelessly fair." 
And folding the kerchief, he cover'd 

The eyes of Mnemosyne there. 



THE LAST MESSAGE. 

Fling the lattice open. 

And the music plain you'll hear ; 
Lean out of the window, 

And you'll see the lamplight clear. 

There, you see the palace 
Where the bridal is to-night. 

You may shut the window. 
Come here, to the light. 



THE LAST MESSAGE. 

Take this portrait with you, 
Look well before you go. 

She can scarce be alter'd 
Since a year ago. 

Women's hearts change lightly 
(Truth both trite and olden !) 

But blue eyes remain blue ; 
Golden hair stays golden. 

Once I knew two sisters : 
One was dark and grave 

As the tomb ; one radiant 
And changeful as the wave. 

Now away, friend, quickly ! 

Mix among the masks : 
Say you are the bride's friend, 

if the bridegroom asks. 

If the bride have dark hair. 

And an olive brow, 
Give her this gold bracelet ; — 

Come and let me know. 

If the bride have bright hair, 

And a brow of snow, 
In the great canal there 

Quick the portrait throw : 

And you'll merely give her 
This poor faded flower. 

Thanks ! now leave your stylet 
With me for an hour. 

You're my friend : whatever 

I ask you now to do, 
If the case were alter'd, 

I would do for you. 



81 riiK ^^ANl>l.ln^K. 

Ami you'll promiso luo. luy inollior 
Shall \iov<'r miss lior t^Dii, 

It' auytliluo- should happen 
In'loro the nii;ht is ilono. 



VKNICE. 

TiiK sylphs and oudlnos. 
And tho soa-kluiis and tpuHMis. 
LoJiii" ano, louii' a<io, on the wavrs built a i-ity, 
As lovoly as soonis 
To smno bard, \n his dvoauis, 
Tho soul ot' his latest lovo-ilitty. 
Long aji'o, long ago, — ah I that was long ago ! 
Thick as gon\s on tho chalices 

Kiuiis ki'cp tor treasure, 
Were (he teuijiles and palaces 
In this city ot" pleasure: 
And the night broke out shining 
With lan\ps and with festival. 

O'er the squares, o'er the streets ; 
And the soft sea went, piniuii' 
NVith love, thro' the musical, 

JNIusical briilges, and marble retreats 
()f this city of wonder, where dwelt tlu' ondines, 
J.,ong ago, and the sylphs, and the sea-kings and 
i]ueens, 
— Ah I that was long ago ! 
l>ut the sylphs and ondines, 
Ami the sea-kings and tpieens 

Are tied under the wa\es: 
And I glide, and 1 glide 
[> the glinnnering tide 
Thro' a city of graves. 
Here will I bury my heait, 

Wrapt in the dream it dream'd ; 



^'w 



ON Tin-: RKA. «i 

Oru; ffravc, more If) llic many ! 
One, ;^rav(; fi.s silent as any ; 
Sculptured about with art, — 

For a j)alaee tliis tomb oriee Hccxud. 
Iji'^ht lips liave, laujfliM there, 
Jirij^lit «!y<;s liav(; hearn'd. 
Revel and dane«t ; 
[jady and lover ! 
J'leasure liatli (juafrM tliere : 
I{(;auly liatli jfleain'd, 
Lov<; woo'd Romance. 
Now all is over ! 
And \ j^lide, and I j.dide 
Up the {^limmerin;; tide, 
'Mid forms silently passing;, as silent as any, 
Here, 'mid th(; waves, 
In this city of f^raves 
'Jo bury my lieart — one grave more to tlie many ! 



ON TIII«: SEA. 

(.'oMK ! breathe thou soft, or blow thou bold. 

Thy comin;X br; it kind or cold, 

Thou soul of the hee<]l(;ss ocean wind; — 

Little I rcd(! and little I rerik, 

Tlio' the mast be snapt on the mizen-deck, 

Sfj thou blow her last kiss from my neck, 

And h(;r memory from my mind ! 

Comrades around tlie mast 
The welkin is o'ercast : 
()ri(! wat(di is wellnigh past — 
Out of sight of shore at last ! 

Fade fast thou falling shore. 
With that fair falscj Jacc of yore, 
And the love, and the life, now o'er ! 



SG TlIK WANDKKKR. 

What she sou^jht, that lot her have — 
The })raise of* traitor ami knave, 
The simper of coward and shive, 
And the worm that elin^s and stings — 
The knowh'dii'e of nobler things. 
l^nt here shall the miu;hty sea 
Make moan with my lu'art in mo, 
And her name bo toj'ii 
By the winds in si'orn, 
Tn whose march we are moving; free. 
I am free, I am free, 1 am free ! 
Hark! ln)w the wilii waves roar! 
Hark ! how the wild winds rave ! 
ConratiO, true hearts and brave, 
Whom Kate can alllict no more ! 

Comrades, the niijht is lonii. 

1 will sino; yon an ancient song 

Of a tale that was told 

In the days of oUi, 

Of a Haron blithe and strong, — 

High heart and bosom bold. 

To strive for the right with wrong ! 

" Who left his castled liomo, 

When the Cross was raised in Rome, 

And swore on his sword 

To fight for the Lord, 

And the banners of Christemlom. 

To die or to overcome ! 

* In hanberk of mail, and helmet of steel, 
And armonr of [>roof from head to heel, 
Oh, what is the woni\d which he shall feel? 
And where the i'oe that shall make him reel V 
Trne knight on whoso crest the cross doth shine I 
They bnckled his harness, brought him his steed — 
A stallion bhu-k of the lanil's best breed — 
lieltoil his s])urs, and bade him God-speed 



ON THE SKA. 87 

'Mid the Paynim in Palestine. 

But the wife that lie loved, when she pour'd him up 

A last deep health in her golden eup, 

Put poison into the wine. 

" So he rode till the land he loved jjjrevv dim, 

And that poison began to work in him, — 

A true knight ehaunting his Christian hymn, 

With the eross on his gallant erest. 

Eastward, a3'e, from tlie waning west, 

■J'oward the land when; the bones of the Saviour 

rest. 
And the liattle of Cod is to win : 
Willi his young wife's picture upon his breast, 
And her poison'd wine within. 

" Alas ! poor knight, poor knight! 

He carrli's tlu; foe he cannot light 

Jn his own true breast shut up. 

He shall die or ever he fight for the Lord, 

And his heart be broken I)elbre his sword, 

He hath ])ledged his life 

To a faithless wife, 

In the wine of a poisoned eup ! " 

Comrade, thy hand in mine ! 
Pledge nie in our last wine, 
While all is dark on the brine. 
My friend, I reck not now 
If tlu? wild night-wind should blow 
Our bark beyond the poles: — 
To drift thro' fire or snow. 
Out of reach of all we know — 
Cold heart, and narrow brow, 
Smooth faces, sordid souls ! 
Lost, likt^ some ])aly crew 
Fi-om Ophii', in golden galleys. 
On a witch's island ! who 
Wander the Tamarisk alleys. 



88 THE WANDKKKR. 

Whore tlio heaven is blue, 

And the ooean too, 

That murmurs amon<;; the valleys. 

" Terisht with all (mi board ! " 

So runs the vagrant fame — 

Thy wile weds another lord, 

My ehildren forget niy name. 

While we count new stars by night. 

]*jach Avanders out of sight 

Till the beard on his chin grows white 

And scant grow the curls on his head. 

One paces the placid hours 

In dim enchanted bowers, 

\\y a soft-i'yed Panther led 

To a magical millc-white bed 

Of di'cp, pale poisou-llowers. 

^Vith i-uin'd (Jods one dwells, 

In caverns among tlu>. fells, 

Where, with desolate arms outspread, 

A single tree stands dead. 

Smitten by savage spells, 

And vstriking a silent dread 

From its black and blighted head 

Thro' the horrible, ho[)cless, sultry dells 

Of Klei)hanta, the Ked. 



BOOK I I . 

IN FUANCK. 

"PllENSUS IN ylOCLEO." 

'TiH toil mnsl, hcl]) iis to fori>(!t. 

In strife, tlicy say, j^ricf" fitids ropose. 

Well, tlicrc's the jijaiiu; ! I throw the stakes 
A liCe of war, a world of foes, 

A heart that triiiinplis whik; It breaks. 
Soiiu! (lay I too, perehaiiee, may lose 
This shade wliich meinory o'er me throws, 
And laM;;h as others hiugh (who knows V) 

But ah, 'twill not he yet ! 

How nvmy years sinee she and I 

Walk'd tiiat old terrace, hand-in-hand ! 
Just one star in the rosy sky, 

And sihmee on the sunnner land. 

And she V 

I think I JK-ar her sing 

That song — the last of all our songs. 
How all comes hack ! — thing after thing, 

The old life o'er me throngs ! 

But T must to the j)alac(! go ; 

The ambassador's to-morrow : 
Hi'.re's little time for thought,, I know, 

And little more for sorrow. 



90 THE WANDERER. 

Already in the porfe-cochere 

The carriao-e sounds. . . my hat and gloves ! 
I hear my friend's foot on the stair, — 

Mow joyously it moves ! 
He must have done some wicked thing 

To make him tread so light : 
Or is it only that the king 

Admired his wife last night? 
We talk of nations by the Avay, 

And ])raise the Nuncio's manners, 
And cud with something Cino to say 

About the " allied banners." 
'Tis well to mix with all conditions 

Of men in every station : 
I sup to-morrow with musicians, 

Upon the invitation 
Of my elever friend, the journalist. 

Who writes the reading ])lays 
Which no one reads ; a socialist 

Most social in his ways. 
But [ am sick of all the din 

That's made in praising Verdi, 
Who only know a violin 

Is not a hurdy-gurdy. 

Here oft, while on a nerveless hand 

An aching brow reclining, 
Thro' this tall window where I stand, 

r see the great town shining. 
Hard by, the restless Boulevart roars, 

Heard all the night thi'o', even in dreaming ; 
While from its hundred open doors 

The many-headed Life is streaming. 
Upon the world's wide thoroughfares 

My lot is cast. So be it ! 
Each on his back his burthen bears. 

And feels, though he may not see it. 
My life is not more hai'd than theirs 

Who toil on either side : 



A l'kntuksol. 91 

Tlioy cry for quiet in tlieir j>rayers, 
And it is still denied. 

But sometimes, wlien 1 stand alone, 

Life pauses — now and then : 
And in tlie distance dies the moan 

Of miserable men. 
As in a dream (how stranjjje !) T seem 

To be lapsinjT, slowly, slowly. 
From noise and strife, to a stiller life, 

Where all is husht and holy. 

Ah, love! our way's in a stranger land. 

VVc may not rest together. 
For an Angel takes me l)y the hand. 

And leads me .... whither V whither V 



A L'FNTllESOL. 

Onk circle of all its golden hours 

The ilitting hand of the Time-[)i(!ce there, 

In its close white bower of china flowers, 
Ilath rounded unaware : 

While the firelight, ilung from the flickering wall 
On the large and limpid mirror behind, 

Hath redden'd and darktufd down o'er all, 
As the fire itself declined. 

Something of pleasure, and something of pain 
There lived in that sinking light. What is it ? 

Faces I never shall look at again, 
In places you never will visit, 

Keveal'd themselves in each faltering ember. 
While, under a palely-wavering flame. 



92 THE WANDERER. 

Half of the years life aches to remember 
lleajDpear'cl, and died as they came. 

To its dark Forever an hour hath gone 

Since either you or I have spoken.: 
Each of us might have been sitting alone 

In a silence so unbroken. 

I never shall know what made me look up 
(In this cushion'd chair so soft and deep, 

By the table where, over the empty cup, 
I was leaning, half asleep) 

To catch a gleam on the picture up there 

Of the saint in the wilderness under the oak; 

And a light on the brow of the bronze Voltaire, 
Like the ghost of a cynical joke. 

To mark, in each violet, velvet fold 

Of the curtains that fall twixt room and room, 
The dip and dance of the manifold 

Shadows of rosy gloom. 

O'er the Rembrandt there — the Caracci here — 
Flutter warmly the ruddy and wavering hues; 

And St. Anthony over his book has a leer 
At the httle French beauty by Greuze. 

There — the Leda, weigh'd over her white swan's 
back, 

By the weight of her passionate kiss, ere it falls ; 
O'er the ebony cabinet, glittering black 

Thro' its ivory cups and balls : 

Your scissors and thimble, and work laid away. 
With its silks, in the scented rosewood box ; 

The journals, that tell truth every day, 
And that novel of Paul de Kock's : 



A l'entresol. 93 

The flowers in the vase, with their bells shut close 
In a dream of the far green fields where they 
grew ; 

The cards of the visiting people and shows 
In that bowl with the sea-green hue. 

Your shawl, with a queenly droop of its own, 
Hanging over the arm of the crimson chair : 

And, last — yourself, as silent as stone, 
In a gl9w of the firelight there I 

I thought you were reading all this time. 

And was it some wonderful page of your book 
Telling of love, with its glory and crime, 

That has left you that sorrowful look ? 

For a tear from those dark, deep, humid orbs 
'Neath their hishes, so long, and soft, and sleek, 

All the light in your lustrous eyes absorbs, 
As it trembles over your cheek. 

Were you thinking hoAV we, sitting side by side, 
Might be dreaming miles and miles apart ? 

Or if lips could meet over a gulf so wide 
As separates heart from heart ? 

Ah, well ! when time is flown, how it fled 

It is better neither to ask nor tell. 
Leave the dead moments to bury their dead. 

Let us kiss and break the spell ! 

Come, arm in arm, to the window here ; 

Draw by the thick curtain, and see how, to-night, 
In the clear and frosty atmosphere, 

The lamps are burning bright. 

All night, and forever, in yon great town, 
The heaving Boulevart flares and roars ; 

And the streaming Life, flows up and down 
From its hundred open doors. 



94 THE WANDERER. 

It is scarcely so cold, but I and you, 

With never a friend to find us out, 
May stare at the shops for a moment or two, 

And wander a while about. 

For when in the crowd we have taken our place, 
( — Just two more lives to the mighty street 
there !) 

Knowing no single form or face 

Of the men and women we meet there, — 

Knowing, and known of, none in the whole 

Of that crowd all round, but our two selves only, 

We shall grow nearer, soul to soul. 
Until we feel less lonely. 

Here are your bonnet and gloves, dear. There — 
How stately you look in that long rich shawl ! 

Put back your beautiful golden hair, 
That never a curl may fall. 

Stand in the firelight ... so, ... as you were — 
Oh my heart, how fearfully like her she seem'd ! 

Hide me up from my own despair, 
And the ahost of a dream I dream'd ! 



TERRA INCOGNITA. 

How sweet it is to sit beside her, 

When the hour brings nought that's better I 
All day in my thoughts to hide her, 

And, with fancies free from fetter, 
Half remember, half forget her. 

Just to find her out by times 
In my mind, among sweet fancies 
Laid away : 



TERRA INCOGNITA. 95 

In the fall of mournful rhymes ; 
In a dream of distant climes ; 
In the sights a lonely man sees 
At the dropping of the day ; 

Grave or gay. 
As a maiden sometimes locks 
With old letters, whose contents 
Tears have faded, 
In an old worm-eaten box, 

Some sweet packet of faint scents. 
Silken-braided ; 
And forgets it : 
Careless, so I hide 

In my life her love, — 
Fancies on each side, 

Memories heap'd above : — 
There it lies, unspied : 
Nothing frets it. 
On a sudden, when 

Deed, or word, or glance, 
Brings me back again 
To the old romance, 
With what rapture then, — 
W^hen, in its completeness, 
Once my heart bath found it, 
By each sense detected. 
Steals on me the sweetness 
Of the air around it, 
Where it lies neglected ! 
Shall I break the charm of this 

In a single minute ? 
For some chance with fuller bliss 

ProfFer'd in it ? 
Secrets unseal'd by a kiss, 

Could I win it ! 
'Tis so sweet to linger near her, 

Idly so ! 
Never reckoning, while I hear her 
W^hispering low. 



96 THE WANDERER. 

If each wliisper will make clearer 

Bliss or woe; 
Never roused to hope or fear her 

Yes or No ! 
What if, seekinoj something more 

Than before, 
All that's given I displace — 

Calm and grace — 
Nothing ever can restore, 

As of yore, ' 

That old quiet face ! 
Quiet skies in (piiet lakes. 

No wind wakes, 
All their beauty double : 
But a single pebble breaks 
Lake and sky to trouble ; 
Then dissolves the foam it makes 

In a bubble. 
With the pebble in my hand, 
Here, upon the brink, I stand; 
Meanwhile, standing on the brink, 

Let me think ! 
Not for her sake, but for mine. 
Let those eyes iinquestion'd shine, 

Half divine : 
Let no hand disturb the rare 
Smoothness of that lustrous hair 

Anywhere : 
Let that white breast never break 
Its calm motion — sleep or wake — 

For my sake. 
Not for her sake, but for mine, 
All I might have, I resign. 

Should I glow 
To the hue — the fragrance fine — 
The mere first sight of the Avine, 
If I drain'd the goblet low ? 

AVho can know ? 
With her beauty like the snow. 



A REMEMBRANCE. 97 

Let her go ! Shall I repine 
That no idle breath of mine 
Melts it ? No ! 'Tis better so. 
All the same, as she came, 
With her beauty like the snow, 
Cold, unspotted, let her go ! 



A REMEMBRANCE. 

'TwAS eve and May when last, thro' tears, 

Thine eyes sought mine, thy hand my hand. 
The night came down her silent spheres, 
And up the silent land. 

In silence, too, my thoughts were furl'd, 

Like ]-ing-doves in the dreaming grove. 
Who would not lightly lose the Avorld 
To keep such love ? 

But many Mays, with all their flowers, 
Are faded since that blissful time — 
The last of all my happy hours 

I' the golden clime ! 

By hands not thine these wreaths were curl'd 

That hide the care my brows above : 
And I have almost gain'd the world. 
But lost that love. 

As tho' for some serene dead brow. 

These wreaths for me I let them twine. 
I hear the voice of praise, and know 
It is not thine. 

How many long and lonely days 
I strove with life thy love to gain ! 

7 



98 TllK WANDERER. 

I know my work was worth thy fjraise ; 
But all was vain. 

Vain Passion's (ire, vain Music's art ! 

For who i'roni thorns iirape-bnnchos gathers ? 
What depth is in the shallow heart V 

What weight in featliers V 

As drops the blossom, ere the growtti 

Ot'irnit, on some antunmal tree, 
I drop i'rom my ehanged life, its youth 
And joy in thee : 

And look beyond, and o'er thee, — right 

To some sublimer end than lies 
Within the compass of the sight 

Of thy colli eyes. 

Witli thine my soul hath ceased its strife. 

Thy })art is till'd ; thy work is done ; 
Thy falsehood buried in my life. 

And known to none. 

Yet still will golden nuMiiories frame 

Thy broken image in my heart. 
And love lor what thou wast shut blame 
From what thou art. 

In T^ife's long galh'ries, haunting-eyed. 

Thy ]>ictured face no clianiii> shall show ; 
Like some dead (Queen's who lived and died 
An a<xe ago ! 



MADAME LA MARQUISE. 

TiiK folds of her wine-(h\rk violet dress 
Glow over the sola, fall on fall, 



MADAME LA MARQUJSK. 99 

As she sits in the air of" her loveliness 
With a smile for each and for all. 

Half of her exquisite face in the shade 

Which o'er it the screen in her soil hand (lings : 

Thro' the gloom glows her hair in its odorous braid : 
In the firelight are sparkling her rings. 

As she leans,— the slow smile half shut up in her 
eyes 

Beams the sleepy, long, silk-soft lashes beneath ; 
Thro' her crimson lips, stirr'd by her faint replies, 

lireaks one gleam of her pearl-white teeth. 

As she leans, — where your eye, by her beauty 
subdued [white 

Drooj)s — from under warm fringes of broidery 
The slightest of feet — silken-slipper'd, j)rotru(le, 

For on(! moment, then slip out of sight. 

As I bend o'er her bosom, to tell h(;r the news. 
The faint scent of her hair, the approach of her 
cheek, 
The vague warmth of her breath, all my senses 
suffuse 
With iiKUSELK : and I tremble to speak. 

So she sits in the curtain'd, luxurious light 

Of that room, with its porcelain, and pictures, 
and (lowers, 
When the dark day's half done, and the snow flut- 
ters white, 
Past the windows in feathery showers. 

All without is so cold, — 'neath the low leaden sky ! 

Down the bald, empty street, like a ghost, the 
gend'arnu; 
Stalks sui-ly : a distant carriage hums by : — 

All within is so bright and so warm ! 

LOFC. 



100 TIIK WANDERER, 

Here wc talk of tlic sclienies and the scandals of 
court, 
How the conrtc/.an pushes : the charlatan 
til rives : 
We jnit hoi'us on the heads of our friends, just for 
sport : 
Put intrigues in the heads of their wives. 

Her warm hand, at parting, so strangely thrill'd 
mine. 

That at dinner I scarcely remark what they say, — 
Drop the ice in my soup, spill the salt in my wine, 

Then go yawn at my favourite play. 

But she drives after noon : — thcn's the time to be- 
hold her. 
With her tair face half hid, like a ripe peeping 
rose, 
'Neath that veil, — o'er the velvets and furs which 
en Ibid her. 
Leaning back with a queenly repose, — 

As she glides up the sunlight ! . . . You'd say she 
was made 

To loll ])a('k in a carriage, all day, with a smile ; 
And at dusk, on a sofa, to lean in the shade 

Of soft lamps, and be woo'd for a while. 

Could we fnid out her heart thro' that velvet and 
lace ! 
Can it beat without rutlling her sumptuous dress ? 
She will show us her shoulder, her bosom, her 
face ; 
But what the heart's like, we must guess. 

With live women and men to be tbund in the 
world — 
( — Live with sorrow and sin, — live with pain 
and with passion, — ) 



THE NOVEL. 101 

Who could live with a doll, tho' its locks should be 
curl'd, 
And its petticoats trinim'd in the fashion ? 

'Tis so (air ! . . would my bite, it' I bit it, draw 
blood V 

Will it cry if I hurt it ? or scold if I kiss ? 
Is it made, with its beauty, of wax or of wood ? 

... Is it worth while to guess at all this V 



THE NOVEL. 

" Hkke, ] have a book at last — 

Sure," I thoujrht, " to make you weep! 

But a careless olance you cast 
O'er its jniges, half asleep. 

'Tis a novel, — a romance, 

(What you will) of youth, of home, 
And of brilliant days in France, 

And Ion<2; moonlit nights in Rome. 

'Tis a tale of tears and sins, 
Of love's irlory and its gloom ; 

In a ball-room it begins, 
And it ends beside a tomb ; 

There's a little heroine too. 

Whom each chapter leaves more j>ale ; 
And her eyes are dark and blue 

Like the violet of the vale ; 

And her hand is frail and fair ; 

Could you but have seen it lie 
O'er the convent deathbed, where 

Wept the Nuns to watch her die, 



102 THE WANDERER. 

Yon, I think, had wept as well ; 

For the patience in her face, 
(Where the dying snnbeam fell) 

Had such strange heart-breaking grace. 

There's a lover, eager, bold, 
Knocking at the convent gate : 

But that little hand grows cold ; 
And the lover knocks too late. 

There's a high-born lady stands 

At a golden mirror, pale ; 
Something makes her jewoU'd hands 

Tremble, as she hears the tale 

AVhich her maid (while weaving roses 
For the ball, thro' her dark hair) 

]\Iix'd with other news, discloses. 
Oh, to-night she will look fair ! 

There's an old man, feeble-handed, 
Counting gold ..." My son shall wed 

With the Princess, as I plann'd it, 
Now that little girl is dead." 

There's a young man, sullen, husht, 
By remorse and grief unmann'd. 

With a wither'd primrose crusht 
In his hot and feverish hand. 

There's a broken-hearted woman, 

. Haggard, desolate, and wild, 
Says ..." The world hath grown inhuman ! 
Bury me beside my child." 

And the little God of this world 

Hears them, laughing in his sleeve. 

He is master still in his world. 
There's another, we believe. 



AUX ITALIENS. 103 

Of this history every part 

You have seen, yet did not heed it ; 
For 'tis written in my lieart, 

And you have not learn'd to read it. 



AUX ITALIENS. 

At Paris it was, at the Opera there ; — 

And she look'd like a queen in a book that night, 

With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, 
And the brooch on her breast, so bright. 

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, 

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore : 

And Mario can soothe with a tenor note 
The souls in Purgatory. 

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow : 

And who was not thrill'd in the strangest way. 

As we heard him sing, while the gas burn'd low, 
" Non ti scordar dl nie ?" 

The Emperor there, in his box of state, 
I^ook'd grave, as if he had just then seen 

The red flag wave from the city-gate. 
Where his eagles in bronze had been. 

The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye. 

You'd have said that her fancy had gone back 
again, 

For one moment, under the old blue sky, 
To the old glad life in Spain. 

Well I there in our front-row box we sat, 
Together, my bride-betroth'd and I : 

My gaze was lix'd on my opera-hat. 
And hers on the stage hard by. 



104 riiK \v \M>KKi:i{. 

A\\(\ bolli wor(> sIUmiI, ami bolli wt>ro sad. 

Lik(' a (iiuHMi, she loaiiM on Iu>r I'liU whlti' arm, 
With that renal, iii(h)UMil air she had; 

So coiiIhUmU of her i-hann ! 

I have not. a (h)iil>i she was lljinUin<i- then 
Ol'her fonucr h)rd, oood soid that lie was ! 

V\'\\o (lii'd the richest, and roundest of men, 
The ]\lar(iuls of Carabas. 

1 ho|)e that, to i>et to th(> kinL;;dom oi" heaven, 
'IMiro' a nee(He's eye he had not to pass. 

I wish liim well, tor the jointure <»iven 
To my lady ot" Carabas. 

]\Ieainvhile, 1 was thinkin<i- of niy liist love. 

As 1 had not bei>n thinkiuii- ot'aniiht tor years. 

Till over my eyes there beiian tt) move 
Somethin*;^ that felt like "tears. 

1 thouuht of the dress that she wore: last time, 
\\'lien we stood, 'neath the ey[)ress trees, to- 
gether, 

In that'lost land, in that soft elinu\ 
In the crimson evening; uhmiIum-: 

Of that muslin dress (lor the »>ve was hot) 

And her warm white neck in its j^olden chain : 

Antl her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, 
And fallinji; loose again : 

And the jasmin-llower in lier fair younjj; breast: 
(() the taint, sweet smell of that jasnun-llovver !) 

And the one bird siniiing alont^ to liis nest : 
And the one star over tlu' towei-. 

1 thouiiht of our little (juarreis and strifes; 

And the K-tter that brounht nui bacdc my rinj;. 
And it all seem'd then, in the waste of life, 

Such a verv little thin<i- ! 



MX iiai.iI':ns. 105 

I*\)i- I tli()iij.'lit of her <rr;iv(! Ix-N.w llic, liill, 
VVIiit'li flu; s(Mitini!l cyprrsM-trcc, HtandH ovor. 

Ami I lli()ii;^lif; ..." Wi'vr. she. only livin<^ still, 
How I could ^\n■</\\^^■ \h'V, .iikI I(>V(! Iic.r !" 

And I swear, ns I llioii;.dil of lici* llius, in tliat hour, 
And of how, al'ln- all, old tliiii<j;.s vvcr-t! host, 

Thai I snutlt iho snicli of that jasniin-(lowc,r, 
Which slic used to wear in h(;r br(;ast. 

It sni(!lt so liiiril, and it smelt so swe(^t, 
Ft niaih; nic, creci), and it inad(j me cold ! 

Lik(^ th(5 scent tliatsloals from the crumbling sh(!(;t 
Where a munmiy is half iiMroH'd. 

And I Iiii'mM, and look'd. Slu; was sitting theii; 

Fn a dim box, over- the stage; and drest 
In that niMslin dress, with that, lull soil hair, 

And tliat jasmin in her bi-east ! 

I was here : and slie was there : 

And tlu! glittering horseshoe curved between : — 
I'^rom my biide-b<Mi(;tird, with her raven hair, 

And h(!r sumptuous, scornful mien. 

To my e;irly Iov(!, with her e \cs downcast, 
And ()V(!r In^r primrose; fiuM! th(! shad<^ 

(Fn short from tin; F<'ut/Ure back to tlu; F'ast) 
'i'licri! was but a st(;)) to be math;. 

'I'o my e;ti-ly lovi; from my future brid(i 

OncMuoment I look'd. TImii F stole to thedoor, 

I travers'd tin; [)assag(! ; and down at her side, 
I was sitting, a moment moi-(!. 

My thinking of h(U', or the nnisic's strain, 
Or something which never will be (!X[)re.st, 

llad brought her bai'k from tlu; grave again, 
With the jasmin in licr breast. 



10(5 TIIK WAN1>KKKK, 

Slio is not (load, and slu' is not wed ! 

Rut slie lovos ino now, and sho lovoii nu> thon ! 
And tlio vorv first word tliat hiM* sweet lips said, 

My heart grew yoiithl'iil ai^ain. 

The INIarehioness there, of Carabas, 

8hi> is wealthy, and younii", and handstMiie still, 
And hut for her . . . well, we'll let that pass, 

She may marry whomever she will. 

Hut 1 will marry my own firsl love, 

With her primrose laee : for old thiui^sare best; 
And the llower in hiM' bosom, I pri/.e it above 

The brooch in uxy lady's breast. 

The world is flird with folly and sin, 

And Jjove must elino- where it ean, I say : 

For Beauty is easy enoujih to win ; 
But one isn't loveil every day. 

And 1 thiidv, in (he lives of niost women and men. 
There 'i^ a moment when all would go smooth and 
even, 

If only the dead eould (ind out when 
To eome baek, and be forgiven. 

Hut () the smell of that jasmin flower! 

And () that musie ! and () the way 
That voice rang out from the donjon tower 

Non ii scordar <li mi\ 
A\)n ti scordar di me ! 



VKOC.UKHH. 107 



PROGRESS. 



Wmkx IJhcrty livc-s IoihI on every lip, 

Hut Fri'A'Aom moans, 
Trampled by Nations whose faint footfalls slip 

Round bloody thrones; 
Wh(!n, h(;re and there, in dun;j;eon and in thrall, 

Or exile pale, 
Jjike torches dyirifj at a funeral, 

Jirave naturcis fail ; 
When 'IVuth, the arni'd arehanf^el, stretches wide 

(jod's tromj) in vain, 
And the world, drowsinj^, turns upon its si(Je 

To drowse again ; 
O Man, wliosc course hathcall'd itself sublime 

Since it bej^an, 
What art thou in such dying age of time;, 

As man to man V 

VVh(;n Love's last wrong hath ]>een forgotten 
coldly, 

As First Love's face; 
And, like a rat that comes to wanton boldly 

In some lone place. 
Once festal, — in th(; realm of light and laughter 

Orim JJoubt appc^ars ; 
Whilst weird Suggestions from Death's vague 
IJenvafter, 

O'er ruin'd yciars, 
Creej), <lark and darker, with new drea<l to mutter 

Thro' Life's long shade. 
Yet make no more in the chill breast the flutter 

Which once they made : 
Whether it be, — that all doth at the grave 

I'ound to its term. 
That nothing lives in that last darkness, save 

The little worm, 



108 TIIK WANHKUKK. 

Or wliclluT the tired spirit j)rol()M«;' its ooiirso 

Tliro' realms iiusoen, — 
Secure, that imkiiowii world cannot l>o \Yorse 

Than this hath been ; 
Tlu'n when thro' 'IMionnht's gold chain, so frail and 
slender, 

No link Avill meet ; 
When all the broken hai-j)s of Lan<>;na!j;o render 

No sound that's sw(>et ; 
When, like torn books, sad days weigh down eaeh 
othei- 

r the dusty shell'; 
() INlan, what ai"t thou, () my i'rieiul, my brother, 

Even to thvselCV 



TTTR POKTRATT. 

MiDNKiiir ]iast ! Not a sound ol' aught 

'i'hro' the silent house, but the wind at his prayers, 

1 sat by the dying (ire, and thought 
Of the dear dead woman upstairs. 

A night ol' tears ! for the gusty rain 

Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet ; 
And the moon look'd forth, as the' in pain, 

With her face all white and wet : 

Nobody with me, my watch to keep, 

lint (lie friend of my bosouj, the man I love: 

And grief had sent him fast to sleep 
In the chambtM- up above. 

Nobody else, in the country place 

All round, that knew of my loss beside, 

IJut the good young Priest with the Raphael-face, 
Who eonfess'd her when she died. 



TIIK rOKTUAlT. 109 

Tliaf pood }oiinL'' Priest is ofijondc nerve, 

And my ""irief had moved him beyond control; 

For his lip <j;revv white, as I could observe, 
When he spccdiid her partiiiii; soul. 

I sat by tin.! dreary hearth alone : 

I thou<j;ht of the pleasant days of yore: 

T said " the stall" of my life is pone : 
The woman I loved is no more. 

" On licr cold, dead bosom my portrait lies, 
AVMiich next to her heart she used to wear — 

Ilaunlinp it o'er with hei- tendei' eyes 
When my own face was not there. 

" It is set all round wilh i-ubies red, 

And pearls which a Peri mipht have kept. 

For each i-uby tlu^re, my heart hath bled: 
For each pearl, my eyes have wept." 

And I said — " the thinp is precious to me : 

They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay ; 

It lies on her heart, and lost must be, 
It I do not take it away." 

I liplited my lamp at llu; dyinp (lame. 

And crej)t uj) I lie stairs that creak'd for fright, 

Till into the chamber of dc^ath 1 came, 
Where sh(i lay all in white. 

The moon shone over her winding sheet. 

There, stai-k she lay on her carven bed : 
Seven burning tapir's about her feet, 

And seven about her head. 

As I stretch'd my hand, I held my breath ; 

I turn'd as I drew the curtains apart : 
I dared not look on the face of death : 

I knew where to find her heart. 



no THE WANDERER. 

I thought, at first, as my touch fell there, 
It had warm'd that heart to life, with love ; 

For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, 
And I could feel it move. 

'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow 
O'er the heart of the dead, — from the other side: 

And at once the sweat broke over my brow, 
" Who is robbing the corpse ? " I cried. 

Opposite me, by the tapers' light, 

The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, 

Stood over the corpse, and all as white. 
And neither of us moved. 

" What do you here my friend V "... The man 
Look'd first at me, and then at the dead. 

" There is a portrait here;" he began ; 
" There is. It is mine," I said. 

Said the friend of my bosom, " yours, no doubt, 

The portrait was, till a month ago, 
"When this suffering angel took that out, 
. And placed mine there, I know." 

" This woman, she loved me well," said I. 

" A month ago," said my friend to me : 
" And in your throat," I groan'd, " you lie ! " 

He answer'd ..." let us see." 

" Enough ! " I return'd, " let the dead decide : 
And whose soever the portrait prove, 

His shall it be, when the cause is tried, 
Where Death is arraign'd by Love." 

We found the portrait there, in its place : 

We open'd it by the tapers' shine : 
The gems were all unchanged : the face 

Was — neither his nor mine. 



ASTARTE. Ill 

" One nail drives out another, at least ! 

The face of the portrait there," I cried, 
" Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest, 

Who confess'd her when she died." 

The setting is all of rubies red. 

And pearls which a Peri might have kept. 
For each ruby there my heart hath bled : 

For each pearl my eyes have wept. 



ASTARTE. 

When the latest strife is lost, and all Is done with, 
Ere we slumber in the spirit and the brain, 

We diowse back, in dreams, to days that life begun 
with. 
And their tender light returns to us again. 

I have cast away the tangle and the torment 

Of the cords that bound my life up in a mesh : 
And the pulse begins to throb that long lay dor- 
mant 
'Neath their pressure ; and the old wounds bleed 
afresh. 

I am toueh'd again with shades of early sadness, 
Like the summer-cloud's light shadow in my 
hair : 

I am thriU'd again with breaths of boyish gladness. 
Like the scent of some last primrose on the air. 

And again she comes, with all her silent graces, 
The lost woman of my youth, yet unpossest : 

And her cold face so unhke the other faces 

Of the women whose dead lips I since have 
prest. 



112 TliK WANDKUEIl. 

The motion aiul the fra<>r<iiK'c of her oarmeiits 
Seem about me, all the day long, in tlie room : 

And her f'aee, with its bewiiderinn- old endearments 
Comes at night, between the eurtains, in the 
gloom. 

When vain dreams are stirr'd with sighing, near 

the morning, 

To my own her phantom lips I feel approaeh : 

And her smile, at eve, breaks o'er me without 

warning 

From its speechless, pale, perpetual reproach. 

When Life's dawning glimmer yet had all the tint 
there 
Of the orient, in the freshness of the grass, 
(Ah what feet since then have trodden out the })rint 
there !) 
Did her soft, her silent footsteps fall, and pass. 

They fell lightly, as the dew falls, 'mid ungather'd 
Meadovv-ilowers ; and lightly linger'd with the 
dew. 

But the dew is gone, the grass is dried and wither'd, 
And the traces of those steps have faded too. 

Other footsteps fall about me — faint, uncertain, 
In the shadow of the world, as it recedes : 

Other forms peer thro' the half uplifted curtain 
Of that mystery which hangs behind the creeds. 

What is gone, is gone forever. And new lashions 
May replace old forms which nothing can restore : 

But l.turn from sighing back departed passions 
With that pining at the bosom as of yore. 

I remember to have murmur'd, morn and even, 
" Tho' the Earth dispart these Earthlies, face 
from face, 



AT HOME DURING THE BALL. 113 

Yet the Heavenlics shall surely join in Heaven, 
For the spirit hath no bonds in time or space. 

" Where it listeth, there it blowcth ; all existence 
Is its reo;ion ; and it houseth, where it will. 

I shall feel her thro' immeasurable distance, 
And grow nearer and be gathered to her still. 

" If I fail to find her out by her gold tresses, 

Brows, and breast, and lips, and language of 
sweet strains, 

I shall know her by the traces of dead kisses. 
And that portion of myself which she retains." 

But my being is confused with new experience, 
And changed to something other than it was; 

And the Future with the Past is set at variance ; 
And Life falters with the burthens which it has. 

Earth's old sins press fast behind me, weakly wail- 

Faint before me fleets the good I have not done : 
And my search for her may still be unavailing 
'Mid the spirits that are pass'd beyond the sun. 



AT HOME DURING THE BALL. 

'Tis hard upon the dawn, and yet 
She comes not from the Ball. 

The night is cold, and bleak, and wet. 
And the snow lies over all. 

I praised her with her diamonds on : — 
And, as she went, she smiled. 

And yet I sigh'd, when she was gone, 
Above our sleeping child. 
8 



H4 IMK WANHKUKU. 

And all niiiht U>ii«i-, as sott and slow 

As falls ilio fallino- rain, 
Tlio thi>niihts i>t' (lays i^ono lon^ ago 

llavo lillM my hoail a<iain. 

Oni'o nioii' I hi\'ir llio Kiiino rnsh (lo\vi\ 

(1 hoar it in tny nund I) 
()ni'c nioro, ahont tho slooping town, 

Tlio lani|>s ^vildv in tlio wind. 

Tlio narrow, siltMit stroot 1 pass : 
Tho luniso stands oVr tln> rivnr : 

A liii'ht is at tho casonjont-jilass, 
That loads my sonl forovor. 

1 I'oi'l my way alonii' tho nhnMn, 
IStair al'tor stair, I pnsh the tloor: 

1 (ind wo ohanoo within tlio I'ooni, 
And all things as i^t' yoro. 

Ono litth> room was all wo had 
For.Innoand tor HiH-ombor. 

Tho worhl is wido, bnt oh how sad 
It sooms. "svhon I riMnombor ! 

Tho oago with tho oanary-bird 
llanii's in tho window still: 

Tho small rod roso-troo is not stlrr'd 
Upon tho Avindow-sill. 

Wido opoi\ hor piano stands; 

— That song 1 mado to oaso 
A passing j^ain whilo hor soft hands 

AVont faintly oVr tho koys ! 

Tho iiro within tho sti>vo bnrns down ; 

'i'ho light is dying last. 
How dear is all it shines npou, 

That firelight of tho Past ! 



A'l IIOMK l>i:iil.\(; IMK I5ALL. 115 

No Kourid I \.\n', iJrowsy Dulcli-cloclc tickH. 

Oil, liow hluji4l(l 1 I'or^'ct 
'J'Im! Hl(;ti(J<;r choti cni(;i(ix, 

'I'liat l)y licr IhmI Ih wet V 

Ilcr lilll(; bed is wliifr; as snow — 

Ilrnv (l(;ar lliat liuN; bed! 
Svv(;c.t (Ircaiiis abrjut llx; curtains ^o, 

And wliisj)<;r round licr head. 

That iH'AiiUi head »lo(!pH o'or her arm 
— Sleeps all its soft brown liair: 

And those dear <;lotlies of liers, yet warm, 
J)roo[> open on the; ehair. 

YcA warm llie snowy jxittieoat ! 

The dainty eors(!t too I 
J low warm tlni ribbon from hr;r throat, 

And warm each litth; shoe I 

Lie sfil'i, dear arm upon the pillow ! 

Sleep, foolish little he;id ! 
AIj, well hIk; Hl(je[>s ! I know the willow 

That curtains her cold b(Ml. — 

Since last I trod tliat silent street 

'Tis many a y(;ar h</() : 
And, if I there (;ould set my feet 

Once more, I do not know 

If 1 should find it wlw^re it was, 

'J'hat hous(i upon the; river: 
But the li^dit that lit the casement-glaBS 

1 know is dark forever. 

iiark ! wheels be-low, . . . my lady's knock ! 

— Farew<;ll, the old romance; !-- 
Well, dear, you're late — past four o'clock ! — 

How often did you dance V 



116 TMK n'ANl>KKKK. 

Nut. coi^ltM* tViMu till' crowiiinu; waUz, 
She tiikos my halt' tho ])ill(>w. — 

Well, — woll ! — tho womon tVco tVom faults 
llavo 1)imIs l)i>l()\v tlio willow! 



X'V llOMK AFTKK. TllK MALL. 

TiiK cloi'ks arc fallliiii" Tliroo 

AtToss tho slItMit tloors. 
Tho liro In tho Librarv 

nios out; thro' the opon tloi>rs 
The vcd c\\\\>{y room yon nwy S(W 

111 tho Nnrsory, up stairs, 

The ohihi hail p,ono to sict'p. 
llalt'-wav 'twixt (iroams ami jiravors, 

Whou tlu> llall-iloor made him loaj) 
'Vo its tlmu(hM- unawaros. 

liiko lovo in a worhlly breast, 
AIom< ill my lady's I'haiubor, 

Tho lamp burns low. siipprost 
Mitl satins oi' bri)itlt>r'il amber. 

Where she stands, halt" iindrest: 

Wi'f bosom all nnlaeed : 

ller 1'lieek.s with a briiiht reil spot : 
Her loiiu; dark hair displaced, 

Down streaniinij;, heeded not, 
From her white throat to her waist : 

She stands up her tnll heiiilit. 

With her ball dress slipping- down her. 
And her eyes as tix'tl and briulit 

As the diamond stars that erowii her — 
An awt'iil, beautiful siiiht. 



no Ml', A I'll, It rill', ii.Mi, 



117 



I5(';iiili(nl, yrn . . . with licr liair 
So wild, Hiid lier clu'.cks .so (Iiislit! 

Avv/ul, y('.s . . . for llimi 

In Iter beauty, slid sland.s IniHlit 

Jiy till', pomp oriu'.r own despair 1 

And (1x1, tliere, williont donhl, 

l'\ic(^ l,o fact^ will) lier own soitow, 

She will .stand, (ill, from willionl, 

'J'lu) li^lil of Ihe nei;^lil)oniin;^ morrow 

Crec[)8 in, and linds Iter onl. 

Willi last night's innsie pealin<^ 

Yonlli's diijjies in lier i-ars : 
Willi last night's lamps ievealin<i;, 

In llie eliarnels oCold years, 
The ("ae«i ol' each dead I'eelin;^. 

Ay, Madam, herc^ alone; 

^'on may think, till yotir heart is broken, 
OI'iIh! love that is dea<l and done, 

or (he days (hat, with no token, 
ViH' evermon; ari^ ;j;on(^ — 

Weep iCyoii can, beseech yon ! 

There's no one by (o curb yon : 
Vonr child's cry cannot reach you : 

Your lord will not dislnrb yon: 
Weep ! . . . what can weepin^j; teiaeh you V 

\'oMr (ears are, dead in y<»u. 

" What harm, where ail thin;j;s chan^^t!," 
You say, " if w(! change too ? 

The old still sunny (iran^ic, ! 

Ah, (hat's far oil" i' the dew. 



*' Were Ihosi! not pleasaid, hours, 
J^^ri; I was what 1 am V 



118 THE WANDERER. 

My garden of Iresli flowers ! 

My milk-white weanling lamb ! 
My bright laburnum bowers ! 

" The orchard walls so trim ! 

The redbreast in the thorn ! • 
The twilight sot't and dim I 

The child's heart ! eve and morn, 
So rich with thoughts of Iiini ! " 

Hush ! your weanling lamb is dead : 
Your garden trodden over. 

They have broken the farm shed : 
They have buried your iirst lover 

With the grass above his head. 

Has the Past, then, so much j>ower, 
You dare take not froui the shelf 

That book with the dry flower, 
Lest it make you hang yourself 

For being yourself tor an hour? 

Why can't you let thought be 

For even a little while ? 
There's nought in memory 

Can bring you back the smile 
Those lips have lost. Just see, 

Here what a costly gem 

To-night in your hair you wore — 
Pearls on a diamond stem ! 

When sweet things are no more, 
Better not think of them. 

Are you savetl by jiangs that paiu'd you 
Is there comfort in all it cost you, 

Before the world had gain'd you, 
Before that (lod had lost you, 

Or your soul had quite disdain'd you ? 



AU CAFE * * * 119 

For your soul (and this is worst 

To bear, as you well know) 
Has been watching you, from first, 

As sadly as God could do ; 
And yourself yourself have curst. 

Talk of the (lames of Hell ! 

We fuel ourselves, I conceive, 
The fire the Fiend lights. Well, 

Believe or disbelieve, 
We know more than we tell ! 

Surely you need repose ! 

To-morrow again — the Ball. 
And you must revive the rose 

In your cheek, to bloom for all. 
Not go V . . . why the whole world goes ! 

To bed ! to bed ! 'Tis sad 

To find that Fancy's wings 
Have lost the hues they had. 

In thinking of these things 
Some women have gone mad. 



AU CAFE * * *. 

A PARTY of friends, all light-hearted and gay, 
At a certain French cafe, where every one goes, 

Are met, in a well-curtain'd warm cabinet, 

Overlooking a street there, which every one 
knows. 

The guests are, three ladies well known and 
admired : 
One adorns the Lyrique ; one ... I oft have 
beheld her 



120 IHK NVANOKin K. 

At the Vau(Itrill<\ with i;iptun>s; the (hlnl livos 
rotirod 
*' I\tns .Nf'.s- nuuhhs" . . . (^\vo all kiunv Ium" hoiisi') 
. . . Ivuo lie lloltKr. 

BosiiU's tlu'jso is a tourth ... a adiiiii: l'!n'j,lislm»an, 
latoly 

Pivscnti'il (lu> rouml (it'tlio rlubs in [\\c iowu : 
A tHcituriv Aui^'lii'aii (.'olilucss si^latt'lv 

Invests him : uuthawM b}- Clarisso, ho sits ilo>Yn. 

}>ut little ho s])oaks, and bnt rarolv ho shares 

In the laniihter aimind hlni; his smiles ai'o b\it 
few; 
There's a sneer in the \ook that his oonntonanoo 
■wears 
In ivjmse ; anil taligno in the eves' ^vea^y bine. 

The rest are throe Fronehmon. Throe Frenohmon 

nhank Heaven!) 

Arc l)ut rarely morose, >vith (Mianipai;ne and 

l>ordean\ : 

And their >vit, and their lan^htor, sulliees to leaven 

With \uirth their unite quest's imitation ot' snow. 

The dinner is done: the Lalitto in its basket. 
The Champagne in its eooler, is pass'd in gay 
haste; 
"Whatever yon wish tor, you ha\ o but to ask it : 
Here are eotVoo, eiiiars, and liijuonrs to your 
taste. 

And forth tVon» the bottles the eorks fly ; and ehilly. 
The briii'ht wine, in bubbling ami blushing, eon- 
touuds 
Its wannth with the iee that it seethes round: and 
shrilly 
(Till stilled by kisses) the kuighter resounds. 



Strike, Htrikc. tlic I'hiuo, hc.-il loud al, tlic; wall! 

Let wcallJiy old Lyctus willi j(s-iloiisy i^ioaii 
Next door, wliilc, !;iir (MiloriH icH[)OMds to 1 lie, call, 

Too lair U) Ix; hii|)|>iii;f vvitli LyciiH alone, ! * 

(Jlarisse, vvilli a smile, li;is subsided, oppresi, — 
llair, perliai)s, by Cliaiiipaj:;rie . . . lialC, perliaps, 
by alleeliori, — 
III I he arms of tlic laeiturii, (-old, Kii^^disli ^'iiest, 
Willi, Just risiii;^ allivvart her imperial com- 
pl(^\ioll, 

One tiii;!;e lliat, yoim^ K\viu liims*;!!" mi^^dit liavG 
kist 
I^'roiii tlie fairest, of M;eMadH lliat danced in his 
troop ; 
And li(!r dee[) liair, unloosed from its Humpluons 
twist, 
()v(!islio\veriii;_'; liei' I lii'oal and lier bosom a-droop. 

'i'lie soft snowy throat, and the; loiind, dinij)Ied ehiu, 

ll[)liirn'd from iJic arm-fold where lian;j;s tin; rich 

head ! 

And tin; warm lips apart, while the white lids bej^in 

To elos(! over (he dark languid eyes which they 

Hhad(i ! 

And Jiexl to (Mariss(^ (with her wild hair all wet 
I<V()m th(; wine, in whose blush its faint fire-(ly 

Sh<! was steeping' just, now), IIk; blue-(;yed rluli(;t(e 
Is niuniiuiin;^, her witty Ijad t.liin;^s to Arnold. 

('ri(;s Arnold to the dumb lOnnlisli ^Mi(;st ..." /\Ion 

What'H the matter? . . . you can't sin;^ . .. well, 
speak then, at least: 

* '''■Andcul, iiiv'nlan 

.DtmcMlcia Hfrrp!,/,nm l/iinlH 
I'A viii'iKi, 8eid non luihut.» ////ro." — Uokack. 



122 THE WANDEKEU. 

More .m'ave, had a man seen a cjliost, could he be? 
Mais quel drole de farceur! . . . comme il a le 
tin trisle ! " 

And says Charles to Eugene (vainly seeking to 
borrow 
Ideas from a yawn) ..." At the club there arc 
three of us 
With the Duke, and we play lansquenet till to- 
moi'row : 
I am oir on the spur . . . what say you ? . , . will 
you be of us V " 

"il/on enfant, hi me houde.^ — (u me houdes, cheri" 
Sighs the sotl Celestine on the breast of Eugene ; 

"J// hah .' ne 7iie fai.^ pas poser, mon amie," 

Laughs her lover, and lifts to his lips — the cham- 
pagne. 

And louil from the bottles the corks lly ; and chilly 
IMie wine gurgles n\) to its fine crystal bounds. 

^V^hile Charles rolls his paper cigars round, how 
shrilly 
(Till kist out) the laughter of Juliette resounds ! 

Strike, strike the ])iano ! beat loud at the wall ! 

Let wealthy old Lyi-us with jealousy groan 
Next door, while fair Chloris responds to the call, 

Too fair to be supping with Lycus alone. 

There is Celestine singing ; and Eugene is swear- 
ing. — 
Li the midst of the laughter, the oaths, and the 
songs. 
Falls a knock at the door : but there's nobody 
hearing: 
Each, uninterrupted, the revel prolongs. 

Said I . . . *' nobody hearing ? " . . . one only ; — the 
guest, 



AU CAFE * * * ' 123 

The morose English stranger, so dull to tlie 
charms 
Of Clarisse, and Juliette, Celestine, and the rest ; 
Who sits, cold as a stone, with a girl in his arms. 

Once, twice, and three times, he has heard it re- 
peated ; 
And louder, and fiercer, each time tlie sound falls. 
And his cheek is death pale, 'mid the others so 
heated ; 
There's a step at the door, too, his fancy recalls. 

And he rises . . . (just so, an automaton rises, — 
Some man of mechanics made up, — that must 
move 
In the way that the wheel moves within him ; — 
there lies his 
Sole path fixt before him, below and above). 

He rises . . . and, scarcely a glance casting on her, 
Flings from him the beauty asleep on his shoulder ; 
Charles springs to his feet ; Eugene mutters of hon- 
our ; 
But there's that in the stranger that awes each 
beholder. 

For the hue on his cheek, it is whiter than white- 
ness : 
The hair creeps on his head like a strange living 
thing. 
The lamp o'er the table has lost half its brightness; 
Juliette cannot laugh ; Celestine cannot sing. 

He has open'd the door in a silence unbroken : 
And the gaze of all eyes where he stands is fixt 
wholly : 
Not a hand is there raised ; not a word is there 
spoken : 
He has open'd the door; .... and there comes 
thro' it slowly 



121 



rilK \V AM>KKKU. 



A woman, as palo as a damo on a lonibstono, 
\\\\\\ (U'solat(> vloU'l t'vi'.s, o))iMi widi'; 

Hit look, as she turns it, turns all in Iho room 
stone: 
She sits (h)\vn on tiie sola, the stranotT hi'sich'. 

Her hair it is yeUow, as moonlight on water 

U'hieli stones in some, tuhly toiMuent into waves; 
Her lips are as rtMJ as new blood spill in sjjui^h- 
(er; 
Her cheek Mke a i^host's seen by nijiht o'er the 
}2;ravt»s. 

Her j)laee by the laritui'n <iuesl she has taken; 
And the lilass at her sid(> slu* has HUM with fham- 
pauni'. 
As slie bows o'er tlie board, all the revidh'i\s 
awaken. 
Slio has ph-di^i'd her unite friend, and she Hlls up 
aoain. 

(^larisse has awaked ; and with shrieks leaves the 

table. 

.Juliette wakes, and faints in the arms of Arnold. 

Anil Charles and iMigene, with what speed thevare 

able. 

Are oir to the elub, whei-e this tale shall be told. 

Cidestine lor her bi-ou^hani, on the stairs, was ap- 
j)ealinii-, 
AVith hystei'ieal sobs, to the surlv roncirnjc, 
AN'hen a ray thi-o' the doorway stole to her, reveal- 
ino- 
A siii'ht that soon ehaniiiMl her appeal to " La 
r/V/v/c." 



All the liuht-hearled fric>nds from the ehand)er are 
tied : 
And the eafe itself has urown silent bv this. 



Air (JAFK * * * 125 

Vvom i\\(^ (lark stroel; Ixilovv, yf)ii can scarce, hvnr a 
tread, 
Save tlio (ieiidanne'H, who reigns tliere as 
^looiny as Dis. 

The shadow of ni^ht is })e<iitinin^ to flit: 

Thro' the ^ray window sliirniners the motionless 
town. 
The pjliost and tht; stran^jrc'r, ton;(!lIier thc^y sit 

Sid(; by side at th(! table: — the j)lace, is their 
own. 

'J'hey nod and chan;^(! glances, that pale man and 
woman ; 
For tJK^y bf)lh ar(i well krif)\vn to (;ach otluir : 
and then, 
Some ghosts have a look that's so horribly human, 
in the strcH't yon might meet them, and take 
them for nnm. 

" Thou art changed, my belov'd ! and the lines 
have grown strongcjr. 
And the (turls have grown scant(!r, that me(!t on 
thy brow. 
Ah faithhiss ! and dost thou rcMncmiber no longer 
The hour of our [jassion, Uu; words of thy vow V 

" 'I'hy kiss, on my lips it is burning forever ! 

I carmot sl(;ep (tahn, f()r my bed is so cold. 
10mbi'ae<', nur ! ch)se . . . closer . . . () hit us part 
iiev(!r, 

And let all be again as it once was of old !" 

So she nuirmurs r(!pinijigly ever. Tier breath 
Jjifts his hair like; a nightwind in winter. And 
he . . . 

" Thy hand, () Fnine, is icy as death, 

liut thy i'iU'At is unchanged in its beauty to me." 



120 THE WANDKUKK. 

" ".ris SO cold, my beloved one, down there, and so 
drear." 
" Ah, thy sweet voice, Irene, sounds hollow and 
strange ! " 
" 'Tis tlu^ chills of till' <:;rave that have chaniicd it, 
I lear : 
Hut the voice of my heart there's no chill that 
can change." 

" Ha ! thy pale check is llusht with a heat like my 
own. 
Is it breath, is it llamc, on thy li{)S that is burn- 
ino- V 
I la! thy heart Jluttei's wild, as of old, 'neath thy 
zone. 
And those cold eyes of thine fdl with passionate 
yearninii'." 

Thus, embracinii; each other, tliey bend and they 
waver. 
And, lauohiurt- and weepinjv, converse. Tiie 
pale i2;host, 
As the wine warms the grave-worm within her, 
grown braver, 
Fills her glass to the brim, and proposes a toast. 

" Here's a health to the glow-worm, Death's sober 
lam{)lighter, 
That saves from the darkness below the grave- 
stone 
The tond)'s pallid })ictures . . . the sadder the 
brighter ; 
Shapes of beauty each stony-eyed corpse there 
liath known : 

" Mere rough sketches of life, where a glimpse 
goes tor all. 
Which the INlastcr keei)s (all the rest let the 
world have !) 



AU CAFE * * *. 127 

But tho' ou\y roiigh-scrawl'd on the blank charnel 
wall, 
Is their truth the less sharp, that 'tis sheath'd in 
the grave V 

" Here's to J^ove . . . the prime passion ... the 

harp that we sung to 

In the orient of youth, in the days pure of pain; 

The cup that we quaff'd in : the stirrup we 

sprung to. 

So light, ere the journey was made — and in vain ! 

" O the life that we lived once ! the beauty so fair 
once ! 
Let them go ! wherefore weep for what tears 
could not save V 
What old trick sets us aping the fools that we were 
once, 
And tickles our brains even under the grave? 

" There's a small stinging worm which the grave 
ever breeds 
From the folds of the shroud that around us is 
spread : 
There's a little blind maggot that revels and feeds 
On the life of the living, the sleep of the dead. 

" To our friends ! . . . " But the full Hood of dawn 
thro' the pane, 
Having slowly roH'd down the huge street there 
unheard, 
(While the great, new, blue sky, o'er the white 
Madelaine 
Was wide opening itself) from her lip wash'd 
the word ; 

Wash'd her face faint and fainter ; while, dimmer 
and dimmer. 
In its seat, the pale form ilickcr'd out like a llame, 



128 THE WANDERER. 

As broiuler, and brioliter, and fuller, tho uTnunior 
Of day thro' the heat-clouded window became. 

And the day mounts apace. Some one opens the 
door. 
In shullles a Avaiter with sleepy red eyes : 
lie stares at tiie cushions Hung loose on the floor, 
On the bottles, the glasses, the plates, with sur- 
prise. 

Stranger still ! he sees seated a man at the table, 
With his head on his hands: in a skunber he 
seems, 

So wild, and so strange, lie no longer is able 
In silence to thrid thro' the path of his dreams. 

For he moans, and he mutters : he moves and he 
motions : 
To the dream that he dreams o'er his wine-cup 
he pledges. 
And liis sighs sound, thro' sleep, like spent winds 
over ocean's 
Last verge, where the world hides its outermost 
edges. 

The gas-lamp tails sick in the tube: and so, dying, 
To the fumes of spilt wine, and cigars but half- 
smoked. 
Adds the stench of its last gasp : chairs broken are 
lying 
All about o'er the carpet stain'd, litter'd, and 
soak'd. 

A touch starts the slee])er. lie wakes. It is day. 

And the beam that dispels all the phantoms of 

night 

Thro' the room sends its kindly and comforting ray : 

The streets are new-peopled : the morning is 

brijiht. 



AU CAFE * * *. 129 

And the city's so fair ! and the dawn breaks so 
brightly ! 
With gay flowers in the market, gay girls in the 
street. 
Whate'er the strange beings that visit us nightly, 
When Paris awakes, from her smile they re- 
treat. 

I myself have, at morning, beheld them departing ; 

Some in masks, and in dominos, footing it on; 
Some like imps, some like fairies ; at cockcrow all 
starting, 

And speedily flitting from sight one by one. 

And that wonderful night-flower, Memory, that, 

tearful. 

Unbosoms to darkness her heart full of dew, 

Folds her leaves round again, and from day shrinks 

up fearful 

In the cleft of her ruin, the shade of her yew. 

This broad daylight life's strange enough : and 
wherever 

We wander, or walk ; in the club, in the streets ; 
Not a straw on the ground is too trivial to sever 

Each man in the crowd from the others he meets. 

Each walks with a spy or a jailer behind him ; 
(Some word he has spoken, some deed he has 
done ;) 
And the step, now and then, quickens, just to re- 
mind him, 
In the crowd, in the sun, that he is not alone. 

But 'tis hard, when by lamplight, 'mid laughter and 
songs too, 
Those return, ... we have buried, and mourn'd 
for, and pray'd for, 
9 



130 THE WANDERER. 

And done with . . . and, free of the grave it be- 
longs to, 
Some ghost drinks your health in the wine you 
have paid for. 

Wreathe the rose, O Young Man ; pour the wine. 
\yhat thou hast 
That enjoy all the days of thy youth. Spare 
thou nought. 
Yet beAvare ! ... at the board sits a ghost — 'tis the 
Past; 
In thy heart lurks a weird Necromancer — 'tis 
Thought. 



THE CHESS-BOARD. 

]My little love, do you remember 

Ere we were grown so sadly wise, 
Those evenings in the bleak December, 
Curtain'd warm from the snowy weather, 
When you and I played chess together, 
Checkmated by each other's eyes '? 
Ah. still I see your soft white hand 
Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. 

Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand : 
The double Castles guard the wings: 
The Bishop bent on distant things, 
Moves, sidling through the fight. 

Our fingers touch ; our glances meet. 
And talter ; falls your golden hair 
Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet 
Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen 
Rides slow her soldiery all between. 
And checks me luiaware. 
Ah me ! the little battle's done, 
Disperst is all its chivalry ; 
Full many a move, since then, have we 



THE SONG. 131 

'Mid Life's perplexing checkers made, 
And many a game with Fortune play'd, — 
What is it we have won V 
This, tliis at least — if this alone ; — 
That never, never, never more, 
As in those old still nights of yore, 
(Ere we were grown so sadly wise,) 
Can you and I shut out the skies. 
Shut out the world, and wintry weather. 

And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, 
Play chess, as then we play'd, together ! 



SONG. 

If Sorrow have taught me anything, 

She hath taught me to weep for you ; 
And if Falsehood have left me a tear to shed 

For Truth, these tears are true. 
If the one star left by the morning 

Be dear to the dying night, 
If the late lone rose of October 

Be sweetest to scent and sight. 
If the last of the leaves in December 

Be dear to the desolate tree. 
Remember, belov'd, O remember 

How dear is your beauty to me ! 

And more dear than the gold, is the silver 

Grief hath sown in that hair's young gold: 
And lovelier than youth, is the language 

Of the thoughts that have made youth old ; 
We must love, and unlove, and forget, dear — 

Fashion and shatter the spell 
Of how many a love in a life, dear — 

Ere life learns to love once and love well. 



132 THE WANDERER. 

Then what matters it, yesterday's sorrow V 

Since I have outlived it — see ! 
And Avliat matter the cares of to-morrow, 

Since you, dear, will share them with me ? 

To love it is hard, and 'tis harder 

Perchance to be loved again : 
But you'll love me, I know, now I love you. — 

What I seek I am patient to gain. 
To the tears I have shed, and regret not, 

What matters a few more tears ? 
Or a few days' waiting longer, 

To one that has waited for years ? 
Ilnsh ! lay your head on my breast, there. 

Not a word ! . . . while I weep for your sake, 
Sleep, and forget me, and rest there : 
My heart will wait warm till }ou wake. 
For — if Sorrow have taught me anything 

She hath taught me to weep for you ; 
And if Falsehood have left me a tear to shed 
For Truth, these tears are true ! 



THE LAST REMONSTRANCE. 

Yes ! I am worse than thou didst once believe me. 

AVorse than thou deem'st me now I cannot be — 
But say " the Fiend's no blacker," . . . canst thou 
leave me ? 

Where wilt thou tlee ? 

Where wilt thou bear the relics of the days 

Scpiander'd round this dethroned love of thine ? 

Hast thou the silver and the gold to raise 
A new God's shrine ? 

Thy cheek hath lost its roundness and its bloom. 
Who willforijive those siaiis where tears have fed 



THE LAST REMONSTKANCE. 133 

On thy once Instrous eyes, — save he for wliom 
Those tears were shedV 

Know I not every grief whose course hath sown 
Lines on thy brow, and silver in thy hair? 

Will new love learn the language, mine alone 
Ilath graven there V 

Despite the blcmisht beauty of thy brow, 

Tbou would'st be lovely, couldst thou love 
again; 

For Love renews the Beautiful : but thou 
Hast only pain. 

How wilt thou bear fi-om pity to implore 

What once those eyes from rai)ture could com- 
mand ? 
How wilt thou stn'tch, — who wast a Queen of 
yore — 
A suppliant's hand ? 

Even were thy heart content from love to ask 
No more than needs to keep it from the chill, 

Hast thou the strength to recommence the task 
Of pardoning still V 

Wilt thou to one, exacting all that I 

Have lost the right to ask for, still extend 

Forgiveness on forgiveness, with that sigh 
That dreads the end ? 

Ah, if thy heart can pardon yet, why yet 
Should not its latest ])ardon be for me V 

For who will bend, the boon he seeks to get, 
On lowlier knee V 

Where wilt thou find the unworthier heart than 
mine, 
That it may be more grateful, or more lowly ? 



134 THE WANDERER. 

To whom else, pardoning much, become divine 
By pardoning wholly ? 

Hath not thy forehead paled beneath my kiss ? 

And thro' thy life have I not writ my name ? 
Hath not my soul signed thine ? . . . I gave thee 
bliss, 

If I gave shame : 

The shame, but not the bliss, where'er thou goest. 
Will haunt thee yet : to me no shame thou 
hast : 

To me alone, what now thou art, thou knowest 
By what thou wast. 

What other hand will help thy heart to swell 
To raptures mine first taught it how to feel ? 

Or from the unchorded harp and vacant shell 
New notes reveal '? 

Ah, by my dark and sullen nature nurst, 
And rock'd by passion on this stormy heart. 

Be mine the last, as thou wert mine the first ! 
We dare not part ! 

At best a fallen Angel to mankind. 
To me be still the seraph I have dared 

To show my hell to, and whose love resigned 
Its pain hath shared. 

If, faring on together, I have fed 

Thy lips on poisons, they Avere sweet at least: 
Nor couldst thou thrive where holier Love hath 
spread 

His simpler feast. 

Change would be death. Could severance from 
my side 
Bring thee repose, I would not bid thee stay. 



SORCERY. 135 

My love should meet, as calmly as my pride, 
That parting day. 

It may not be : for thou couldst not forget me — 
Not that my own is more than other natures, 

But that 'tis different : and thou -wouldst regret me 
'Mid purer creatures. 

Then, if love's first ideal now grows wan, 
And thou Avilt love again, — again love me, 

For what I am : — no hero, but a man 
Still lovinii thee. 



SORCERY. 

I TO . 

You're a milk-white Panther : 

I'm a Genius of the air. 
You're a Princess once enchanted ; 

That is why you seem so fair. 

For a crime untold, unwritten. 
That was done an age ago, 

I have lost ray wings, and wander 
In the wilderness below. 

In a dream too long indulged, 

In a Palace by the sea, 
You were changed to what you are 

By a mutter'd sorcery. 

Your name came on my lips 

When I first look'd in your eyes : 

At my feet you fawn'd, you knew me 
In despite of all disguise. 



136 TIIK WANDEIJER. 

The black Elephants ot'Dolhi 
Are tho Avisost of their kind, 

And tiie Llbbanls of Somnatra 
Are t'lili of eves behind : 

But they ouessM not, they divined not, 
'I'hey believed nie of the earth, 

AVhen 1 -walk'd ainoni:: them, nionrning 
For the region of my bii-th. 

Till I fonnd yon in the nioonlioht. 

Then at oiu'e 1 knew it all. 
Win were sleepinsr in the sand hero, 

l>nt yon wakenM to my call. 

I knew why, in yonr slinnber. 
Yon were nioanino- luteonsly : 

Yon heard a sonnd ol'harjiiniv 
From a Falaee by the sea. 

Thro' the wilderness toiivther 
AVe mnst wander everywhere. 

Till we find the ninijie berry 

That shall maki> ns what we were. 

Tis a berry sweet and bitter, 
1 have heard ; there is bnt one ; 

On a tall tree, by a tbnntain, 
In the desert all alone. 

When at last 'tis fonnd and eaten. 
We shall both be what we were ; — 

Y'on, a Prineess of the water, 
1, a (ilenins of the air. 

See! the Oecident is tlarin<x 
Far behind ns in the skies. 

And onr shadows lloat beibre us. 
Night is coming forth. Arise ! 



AinVAJ MKIXONNK, MA I'.KLLK. l.'J7 

ADIEU, MIGNONNE, MA IJELLE. 
A 1)1 KIT, Mijiifnonno, ma belle . . . wlicn you arc 

rrOlK!, 

Vajj;uo thoughts of you will warwhir, Hcarohing 

love 
Thro' this dim heart: thro' this dim room, M\<s- 

i.onn(;, 
Vagu(5 fVagraucc froui }f)ur hair and dress will 

move. 

How will you think of this poor heart to-morrow, 
'IMiis poor fond luiart with all its joy in you V 

Whieli you were; fain to U'/du on, onee, in sorrow, 
Tliough now you hid it such a light adieu. 

You'll sing perchanee ..." I pass'd a niglit of 
dreams 

Once, in an old Inn's old worm-eat(m bed, 
Passing on life's highway. J low strange it s(!(^ms, 

That never uion; I there shall lean my head ! " 

Adieu, Mignonn(;, adieu Mignonne, ma belle ! 

Ah little witch, our greeting was so gay, 
(Jur love so painless, wlio'd have thought " Fare- 
well " 

Could ever be so sad a word to say ? 

I l(!ave a thousand fond farewidls Avith you : 

Som(! for your nsd wet lips, which were so sweet : 

SouKi for your darlirifr eyes, so d(iar, so blue : 
Some for your wicked, wanton little feet: 

l)Ut for your little h(;art, nf)t y(!t awake, — 

What can I leave your little h(;art, Mignonne V 

ft seems so fast ash^jf), [ fear to break 

The poor thing's slumber. L(!t it still sleep on ! 



loS TllK NVANDKHKK 



TO MIGNONNE. 

At inoruinii', from the sunliiiht; 

I shall miss your smiiiy t'ai'o, 
Loainnii', lauiihinii", on my sluniUlor 

^^"lth Its I'aroli'ss iiU'ant iiraoo ; 
Ami } our haml thoi'O, 

With its rosy, insiilo oolour. 

And the sparkle ot* its I'iuiis ; 
And your soul from this ohl ehamber 

MissM in fit\y little thinus, 
When 1 staml there. 

And the n>ses in the uarden 

Droop stupid all the day, — 
lied, thirsty mouths Avide open, 

With ni>t a word to say ! 
Their last meanin<j 

Is all tailed, like a tVauranee, 

From the laniiuishinix late tlowers. 

With your teet, your slow \Yhite mo\ ement; 
And your t'aee, in silent hours, 
CVor thenj leaning. 

Ami, in long, eool sunnner evenings, 

I shall ne\ er sec you, drest 
In those pale violet eoloui-s 

Whieh suit your sweet faee best. 
Here's your glove, ehild, 

Soil'd and empty, as you left it, 

Yet your hand's warmth seems to stay 

In it still, as tho* this moment 

You had drawn your hantl away; 
Like your love, child, 



TO MIGNOXNK. 139 

Which still stays about my fancy. 

S(;e this litth', silken boot. — 
What a playtliin*; ! was tlicrc ever 

Such a H\i<f\it and Hh^n(Jer foot V 
Js it strange now 

Flow tliat, when your h'ps arc nearest 

To tlie lips they feed upon 
For a summer time, till bees sleep, 

On a sud(l(!n you are jjone V 
What new change now 

Sets you sighing . . . eyes uplifted 

To the starry night above V . . . 
" (lod is great . . . the soul's immortal . . . 

Must we die, tho' V . . . Do you love V 
One kiss more, then : 

*' Life might end now ! " . . . And next moment, 

With those wicked little f<-et, 
You liave vanish'd, — like a Fairy 

From a fountain in the heat. 
And all's o'er, then. 

Well, no matter ! . . . hearts are breaking 

Every day, but not tor you, 
J^ittle wanton, ever making 

Chains of rose, to break them thro'. 
I would mourn you. 

But your red smile was too warm, Sweet, 

And your little heart too cold, 
And your blue eyes too blue merely, 

For a stiong, sad man to scold, 
Weep, or scorn, you. 

For that smile's soft, transient sunshine 

At my hearth, when it was chill, 
I shall never do your name wrong. 



I-IO Till' NVANOKKKK. 

l>ut think kiiuUy ot" ymi still ; 
And oarh moniont 

C^t' your ]>rotty intant auuors, 

(\\'ho could holp but suulo at . . . -svluMi 
Thoso small fl>ot would stamp our lovo out V) 

Why, 1 pass them now, as thou, 
AVithout c'ommont. 

(.)nly, luM-o, Nvhon I am soari'hlnjj; 

For the hook 1 oannot tind, 
I i\Hist somotimos pass your boudoir, 

lloNvsoOYor disini'lininl ; 

And must moot thoro 

Tho oohl bird-caiiv in tho windt^w, 
Whoro no bird is singino- now; 

Tho small sofa, and tiio tootstool, 

AVhoro 1 miss ... I know not how . . . 
Your young t'eot there, 

Silken-sof\ in eacli quaint slipper; 

And the jewell'd writinir-ease. 
Where you never more will write now ; 

And the visitui ot'your t'aee, 
Just tnrn'd to me : — 

I would save this, if T could, child, 
But that's all. . . . September's here ! 

I must write a book : read twenty : 
Learn a lantiuai^e . . . what's to fear V 
AVho grows gloomy 

Being free to Avork, as 1 an\ ? 

Yet these autumn nights are cold. 
Ilow T wonder how vou'U pass them ! 

Ah could all be as of old! 

r>ut 'tis best so. 



COMPENSATION. 141 

All <!()()<[ tilings must go for better, 

As tlx; [jrirnrose for the rose. 
J:-; love free V why so i.s life, too ! 

llold.i the *rrave fast V ... 1 suppose 
Thiii<;s must rest so. 



COMPENSATION. 

WuKN the days are silent all 

Till the drear li;r|,t falls; 
And th(i ni^^hts pass with the pall 

Of Love's fiinerals ; 
When the heart is weigh'd with years ; 
And the eyes too weak for tears ; 
And life like death appears; 

Is it nought, O soul of mine, 
To hear i' the windy track' 
A voice with a song divine. 

Calling thy footsteps back 
To the land thou lovest best, 
""I'oward the Garden in the West 
Where thou hast once been blest? 

Is it nought, O aching brow, 

To feel in the dark hour, 
Which came, tho' call'd, so slow. 

And, tho' loath'd, yet lingers slower, 
A hand upon thy pain, 
Lovingly laid again, 
Smoothing the ruflled brain ? 



O love, my own and only ! 

The seraphs shall not see 
By my looks that life was lonely 

But that 'twas blest by thee. 



142 TlIK WANDKKKK. 

If tew lives have been more lone. 
Few have more rapture known. 
Than mine and thine, my own ! 

AVhen the lamp burns dim and ilinnner ; 

And the enrtain elose is ilrawn ; 
And the twilight seems to >rlinnner 

With a supernatural dawn ; 
And the Genius at the door 
Turns the torch down to the tloor. 
Till the Morld is seen no more ; 

.Ti\ the iloubt, the ilark, the tear, 

'Mid the spirits eome to take thee, 
Shall mine to thine be near. 

Anil mv kiss the tirst to wake thee, 
^leanwhile, in life's Deeember, 
On the wind that strews the ember, 
Shall a voice still moan . . . '• Remember 



TRANSLATIONS FROM PKTKU RON- 
SARD. 

" rOICI LE BOIS QUE MA SAiyCTE AyOELEl'TEy 

Hkrk is the wood that tVeshen'd to her song; 

See hei'e, the tlowei-s that keep her toot-prints 
yet ; 

AVhere, all alone, my saintly Angelette 
"Went wandering, with her maiden thoughts, along. 

Here is the little rivulet where she stop{>'d ; 

Antl here the greenness ot' the grass shows where 
She lingered thro' it, searching here and there 

Those daisies dear, which in her breast she dropp'd. 



TRANSLATIONS FKOM PF:TEK IIONSAKD. 143 

Here did she sing, and here she wept, and here 
Her smile came back ; and here I seem to hear 
Those faint half-words with which my thoughts are 
rife ; 

Here did she sit ; here, childlike, did she dance, 
To some vague impulse of her own romance — 
Ah, Love, on all these thoughts, winds out my life ! 



''CACHE POUR CETTE NUICT/' 

Hide, for a night, thy horn, good Moon ! Fair 
fortune 
For this shall keep Endymion ever prest 
Deep-dreaming, amorous, on thine argent breast, 

Nor ever shall enchanter thee importune. 

Hateful to me the day ; most sweet the night ! 

I fear the myriad meddling eyes of day ; 

But courage comes with niglit. Close, close, I 
pray, 
Your curtains, dear dark skies, on my delight! 

Thou too, thou Moon, thou too hast felt love's 

power ! 
Pan, with a white fleece, won thee for an hour; 
And you, sidereal Signs in yonder blue. 

Favour the fire to which my heart is moved. 
Forget not. Signs, the greater part of you 
Was only set in heaven for having loved ! 



''PAGE SUY MOYP 

Follow, my Page, where the green grass em- 
bosoms 
The enamell'd Season's freshest-fallen dew ; 



144 THE WANDERER. 

Then home, and my still house with handfuls 
strew 
Of frail-lived April's newliest nurtured blossoms. 

Take from the wall now, my song-tuned Lyre ; 
Here will I sit and charm out the sweet pain 
Of a dark eye whose light hath burn'd my brain ; 

The unloving loveliness of my desire ! 

And here my ink, and here my papers, p'ace : — 
A hundred leaves of white, whereon to trace 
A hundred words of desultory woe — 

Words which shall last, like graven diamonds, 
sure ; — 
That, some day hence, a future race may know 
And ponder on the pain which I endure. 

" LES ESPICES SONT A CERES:' 

Ceres hath her harvests sweet : 
Chlora's is the young green grass : 

Woods for Fawns with cloven feet : 
His green laurel Phojbus has : 

Minerva has her Olive-tree : 
And the Pine's for Cybele. 

Sweet sounds are for Zephyr's wings: 

Sweet fruit for Pomona's bosom : 
For the Nymphs are crystal springs 
And for Flora bud and blossom : 
• But sighs and tears, and sad ideas. 
These alone are Cytherea's. 



" MA DOUCE JOVVENCE,'' 

My sweet youth now is all done ; 
The strength and the beauty are gone. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM PETER RONSARD. 145 

The tooth now is black, and the head now is 
white, 
And the nerves now are loosed : in the veins 
Only water (not blood now) remains, 

Where the pulse beat of old with delight. 

Adieu, O my lyre, O adieu. 

You sweet women, my lost loves, and you 

Each dead passion ! . . . The end creepeth nigber. 
Not one pastime of youth has kept pace 
With my age. Nought remains in their place 

But the bed, and the cup, and the fire. 

My head is confused with low fears. 
And sickness, and too many years ; 

Some care in each corner I meet — 
And, wherever I linger or go, 
I turn back, and look after, to know 

If the Death be still dogging my feet : — 

Dogging me down the dark stair. 
Which windeth, I cannot tell where, 

To some Pluto that opens forever 
His cave to all comers — Alas ! 
How easily down it all pass, 

And return from it — never, ah never ! 



10 



BOOK III 

IN ENGLAND. 



THE ALOE. 

A STRANCER sont froui burninsjj lands, 
In roahns wlioi-e buz/ and mutter yot 

Old ^ods, with hundred heads and hands, 
On jcwell'd thrones of jet, — 

(Old gods as old as Time itself,) 
And, in a hot and level calm, 

llcelinc o'er many a sandy shelf 
Dusk forms beneath the palm, — 

To Lady Eve, wlio dAvells beside 
The river-meads, and oak-trees tall, 

Whose dewy shades encircle wide 
Her old liaronial Hall, 

An Indian plant with leaves like horn. 
And, all along its stubborn spine. 

Mere hum])s, with angry spike and thorn 
Arm'd like the porcupine. 

In midst of which one sullen bud 

Survey 'd the Avorld, with head aslant, 

Iligh-throned, and looking like the god 
Of this strange Indian plant. 



TIIK ALOE. 147 

A stubborn plant, from looking cross 
It seeni'd no kindness could retrieve ! 

But for his sake whose gift it Avas 
It pleased the Lady Eve. 

She set it on the terraced walk, 

Within her own fair garden-ground ; 

And every morn and eve its stalk 
Was duly water'd round. 

And every eve and morn, the while 
She tended this uncourteous thing, 

I stood beside her, — watch'd her smile, 
And often heard her sing. 

The roses I at times would twist 
To deck her hair, she oft forgot ; 

But iHiver that dark aloe miss'd 
The daily watering-pot. 

She seem'd so gay, — I felt so sad, — ■ 

Iler laugh but made me frown the more : 

For each light word of hers I had 
Some sharp reply in store. 

Until she laugh'd ..." This aloe shows 
A kindlier nature than your own "... 

Ah pjve, you little dream'd what foes 
The plant and I had grown ! 

At last, one summer night, when all 

The garden-flowers were dreaming still, 

And still the old liaronial Hall, 
The oak-trees on the hill, 

A loud and sudden sound there stirr'd, 
As when a thunder cloud is torn ; 

Such thunder-claps are only heard 
When little sods are born. 



148 THE WANDERER. 

The echo went from place to place, 
And waken'd every early sleeper. 

Some said that poachers in the chase 
Had slain a buck — or keeper. 

Some hinted burglars at the door: 

Some question'd if it had not lighten'd : 

While all the maids, as each one swore, 
From their seven wits were frighten'd. 

The peacocks scream'd, and every rook 
Upon the elms at roost did caw : 

Each inmate straight the house forsook : 
They scare h'd — and, last, — they saw 

That sullen bud to flower had burst 
Upon the sharp-leaved aloe there ; — 

A wondrous flower ; whose breath disperst 
Rich odours on the air. 

A flower, colossal — dazzling white. 

And fair as is a Sphinx's face, 
Turn'd broadly to the moon by night 

From some vast temple's base. 

Yes, Eve ! your aloe paid the pains 

With which its sullen growth you nurst. 

But ah ! my nature yet remains 
As churlish as at first. 

And yet, and yet — it might have proved 
Not all unworth your heart's approving. 

Ah, had I only been beloved, — 
(Beloved as I was loving !) 

I might have been . . . how much, how much, 
I am not now, and shall not be ! 

One gentle look, one tender touch, 
Had done so much for me ! 



" MEDIO DE FONTE LEPORUM." 149 

I too, perchance, if kindly tended, 
Had roused the nappino; generation, 

With something novel, strange, and splendid, 
Deserving admiration : 

For all the while there grew, and grew 
A germ, — a bud, within my bosom : 

No flower, fair Eve ! — for, thanks to you, 
It never came to blossom. 



"MEDIO DE FONTE LEPORUM 
SURGIT AMARI ALIQUID." 

Lucretius. 

We walk'd about at Hampton Court, 

Alotie in sunny weather, 
And talk'd — half earnest, and half sport, 

Link'd arm in arm together. 

I press'd her hand upon the steps. 

Its warmest light the sky lent. 
She sought the shade : I sought her lips : 

We kiss'd : and then were silent. 

Clare thought, no doubt, of many things. 
Besides the kiss I stole there ; — 

The sun, and sunny founts in rings, 
The bliss of soul with soul there. 

The bonnet, fresh from France, she wore. 

My praise of how she wore it, 
The arms above the carven door, 

The orange-trees before it ; — 

But I could only think, as, mute 
I watch'd her happy smile there. 



150 THE WANDERER. 

With rising pain, of this curst boot, 
That pinch'd me all the while there. 



THE DEATH OF KING HACOX. 

It was Odin that whisperM in Yingolf, 
" Go forth to the heath by the sea ; 

Find Haeon before the moon rises, 
And bid him to supper with me." 

They 20 forth to choose from the Princes 
Of Yniivon, and summons from tight 

A man who must perish in battle, 

And sup where the gods sup to-night. 

Leaning over her brazen spear. Gondula 
Thus bespake her companions, " The least 

Of the gods shall, in Vingolf, this evening, 
O ye Daughters of War, be encreast. 

" For Odin hath beckon'd unto me. 
For Odin hath whisper'd me forth, 

To bid to his supper King Ilacon 

With the half of the hosts of the North." 

Their horses gleam'd white thro* the vapour : 
In the moonlight their corselets did shine : 

As they waverVl and whisper'd together, 
And fashion'd their solemn design. 

Hacon heard them discoursing — •'• Why hast thou 
Thus disposed of the battle so soon ? 

Oh were we not worthy of conquest ? 
Lo I we die by the rise of the moon." 

"It is not the moon that is rising. 

But the glory which penetrates death, 



THE DEATH OF KING HACON. 151 

When heroes to Odin are summon'd : 
Rise Hacon, and stand on the heath ! 

" It is we," she replied, " that have jjiven 
To thy pasture the flower of the fight, 

It is we, it is we that have scatter'd 
Thine enemies yonder in llight. 

" Come now, let us push on our horses 
Over yonder green worlds in the east, 

Where the great gods are gather'd together, 
And the tables are piled for the feast. 

" Betimes to give notice to Odin, 

Who waits in his sovran abodes, 
That the King to his palace is coming 

This evening to visit the gods." 

Odin rose when he heard it, and with him 
Rose the gods, every god to his feet. 

He beekon'd Hennoder and Brago, 
They came to him, each from his seat. 

" Go forth, O my sons, to King Hacon, 
And meet him and greet him from all, 

A King that we know by his valour 
Is coming to-night to our hall." 

Then faintly King Hacon approaches, 

Arriving from battle, and sore 
With the wounds that yet bleed thro' his armour. 

Bedabbled and dripping with gore. 

His visage is pallid and awful 

With the awe and pallor of death. 
Like the moon that at midnight arises 

Where the batfle lies strewn on the heath. 

To him spake Ilermoder and Brago, 

" We meet thee and greet thee from all, 



152 THE WANDERER. 

To the gods tliou art known b}' thy valour, 
And they bid thee a guest to their hall. 

" Come hither, conio hither, King Ilacon, 
And join those eight brothers of thine, 

AVho already, awaiting thy eoniing, 
With the gods in Walhala recline. 

" And loosen, () Ilaoon, thy corselet, 
For thy wounds are yet ghastly to see. 

Go ])our ale in the circle of heroes, 

And drink, for the gods drink to thee." 

But he answer'd, the hero, " I never 
Will part with the armour I wear. 

Shall a warrior stand before Odin 

Unshamed, without hehnet antl spear ? " 

Black Fenrls, the wolf, the destroyer, 

Shall arise and break loose from his chain, 

Betbre that a hero like llacon 
Shall stand in the battle auain. 



« CARFE DIEM." 



IIOKACK. 



To-MOKROw is a day too flir 
To trust, whate'er the day be. 

We know, a little, what we are, 
But who knows what he may be ? 

The oak that on the mountain grows 

A goodly shi{) may be. 
Next year; but it as well (who knows?) 

Ma y be a gallows-tree. 



TIIK FOUNT OF TIlUTir. 153 

'Tis God made man, no doubt, — not Chance : 

lie made us, jjreat and small ; 
But, being made, 'tis Circumstance 

That finishes us all. 

The Author of. this world's great plan 

The same residts will draw 
From human life, however man 

May keep, or break, His law. 

The Artist to his Art doth look ; 

And Art's great laws exact 
That those portray'd in Nature's Book, 

Should freely move and act. 

The moral of the work unchanged 

Endures eternally, 
Ilowe'er by human wills arranged 

The work's details may be. 

" Give us this day our daily bread, 

The morrow shall take heed 
Unto itself." Tiie Master said 

No more. No more we need. 

To-morrow cannot make or mar 

To-day, whate'er the day be : 
Nor can the men which now we are 

Foresee the men we may be. 



THE FOUNT OF TRUTH. 

It was the place by legends told, 
I read tiie tale when yet a child. 

The castle on the mountain hold, 
The woodland in the wild. 



154 THE WANOKRKK. 

Tho wrecks of uiiremembiM'M days 

Wero hea|)\l arouiul. It was the hour 

Whon bold moii I'oar, and timorous Fays 
(irow bold, ami know their power. 

Tlio mouth was in the downward year. 

The brt'ath of Autumn chill'd the sky : 
And useU'ss Uvives, too e:irly sere, 

JNIutterM ami eddied by. ' 

It seem'd that 1 was wendin<; baek 
xVuioiil:: the ruins of my youth. 

Along a wild ui<iht-hauntetl track 
To seek the Fount of Truth. 

The Fount of Truth — that wondrous fount ! 

Its solemn sound I seeniM to hear 
AVind-borne adown the clouded mount, 

J^esolate, cold, and clear. 

By clues long lost, and tound again 
I know not how, my course was led 

Thro' lands remote from living men, 
As life is from the dead. 

Yet up that wild road, here and there, 
Large, awt'ul tbotprints did 1 meet : 

Footprints of gods perchance they were, 
Fruits — not of human feet. 

The mandrake underneath my toot 
Gave forth a shriek of auirry pain. 

1 heard the roar ot some wiKl brute 
Prowling the windy plain. 

1 reach'd the gate. I blew with power 
A blast upon the darkness wide. 

" Who art thou?" iVom the gloomy tower 
The sullen warder cried. 



THE FOUNT OF TRUTH. 155 

" A Pil^rrim to the Fount of Truth." 
He lau;^h'(l a lau^jjh of scornful spleen. 

" Art tliou not from the Land of Youth ? 
Report where thou hast been." 

" The Land of Yontli ! an alien race 
There, in my old dominions, reign ; 

And, with them, one in whose false face 
I will not gaze again. 

*' From to and fro the world I come, 
Where I have fared as exiles fare, 

Mock'd by the memories of home 
And homeless everywhere. 

" The snake that slid thro' Paradise 
Yet on my pathway slides and slips : 

The apple pluck'd in Eden twice 
Is yet upon my lips. 

" I can report the world is still 

Where it hath been since it began : 

And Wisdom, with bewildered will, 
Is still the same sick man, 

" Whom yet the selfsame visions fool. 

The selfsame nightmares haunt and scare. 

Folly still breeds the Public Fool, 
Knowledge increaseth care : 



Joy hath his tears, and Grief her smil 



And still both tears and smiles deceive. 
And in the Vallev of the Nile 
I hear — and I believe — • 

" The Fiend and Michael, as of yore. 
Yet wage the ancient war: but how 

This strife will end at last, is more 
Than our new sajjes know." 



156 THE WANDERER. 

I heard the gate behind me close. 

It closed with a reluctant wail. 
Roused by the sound from her repose 

Started the Porteress pale: 

In pity, or in scorn ..." Forbear, 

INIadman," slie cried, . . . "thy search for Truth 
The curl is in thy careless hair. 

Keturn to Love and Youth. 

" What lured thee hei-e, thro' dark, and doubt, 
The niany-})erillM ])ri/.e to win ? " — 

'' The dearth "... I said ..." of all without, 
The thirst of all within. 

" Age comes not with the wrinkled brow 
But earlier, with the ravaged heart ; 

Full oft hath fall'n the winter snow 
Since Love from me did ])art. 

" Long in dry ]>laces, void of cheer. 

Long have I roam'd. These features scan: 

If magic lore be thine, look here, 
Behold the Talisman ! " 

I cross'd the court. The bloodhound bay'd 

Behind me from the outer wall. 
The drowsy grooms my call obey'd 

And lit the haunted hall. 

They brought me horse, and lance, and helm, 
They bound the buckler on my breast, 

Spread the weird chart of that wild realm, 
And ann'd me for the quest. 

Upro.se the Giant of the Keep. 

" Rash fool, ride on ! "... I lieard him say. 
*' The night is late, the heights are steep, 

And Truth is far away ! " 



MIDGES. 157 

And ..." Far away ! " . . . the echoes fell 

Behind, as from that grisly hold 
I turn'd. No tongue of man may tell 

What mine must leave untold. 

The Fount of Truth — that wondrous fount ! 

Far off I heard its waters play. 
But ere I scaled the solemn mount, 

Dawn broke. The trivial day 

To its accustom'd course flow'd back, 

And all the glamour faded round. 
Is it forever lost — that track V 

Or — was it never found V 



MIDGES. 

She is talking aesthetics, the dear clever creature ! 

Upon Man, and his functions, she speaks with a 
smile. 
Her ideas are divine upon Art, upon Nature, 

The Sublime, the Heroic, and Mr. Carlyle. 

Ino more am found worthy to join in the talk, 
now ; 
So I follow with my surreptitious cigar ; 
While she leads our poetical friend up the walk, 
now, 
Who quotes Wordsworth and praises her 
" Thoughts on a star." 

Meanwhile, there is dancing in yonder green bower 
A swarm of young midges. They dance high 
and low. 

'Tis a sweet little species that lives but one hour, 
And the eldest was born half an hour ago. 



158 THE WANDERER. 

One impulsive young midge I hear ardently pour- 
ing 
In tlie ears of a sliy little wanton in gauze, 
His eternal devotion ; his ceaseless adoring ; 

Which shall last till the Universe breaks from 
its laws : 

His passion is not, he declares, the mere fever 
Of a ra})turous moment. It knows no control : 

It will burn in his breast thro' existence forever, 
Immutably fix'd in the deeps of the soul ! 

She wavers : she flutters : . . . male midges are 
fickle : 
Dare she trust him her future ? . . . she asks with 
a sigh : 
He implores, . . . and a tear is beginning to trickle: 
She is Aveak : they embrace, and . . . the'lovers 
pass by. 

While they pass me, down here on a rose leaf has 
lighted 

A pale midge, his feelers all drooping and torn : 
His existence is wither'd ; its future is blighted : 

His hopes are betray'd: and his breast is forlorn. 

By the midge his heart trusted his heart is de- 
ceived now : 
In the virtue of midges no more he believes : 
From love in its falsehood, once wildly believed, 
now 
He will bury his desolate life in the leaves. 

His friends would console him . . . the noblest and 
sagest 
Of midges have held that a midge lives again ; 
In Eternity, say they, the strife, thou now wagest 
With sorrow, shall cease ... but their words are 
in vain ! 



MIDGES. 159 

Can Eternity bring back the seconds now wasted 
In hopeless detire ? or restore to his breast 

The belief he has lost, with the bliss he once tasted, 
Embracing the midge that his being loved best ? 

His friends would console him . , . life yet is before 
him ; 
INIany hundred long seconds he still has to live : 
In the state yet a mighty career spreads before 
him : 
Let him seek in the great world of action to 
strive ! 

There is Fame ! there's Ambition ! and, grander 
than either, 
There is Freedom ! . . . the progress and march 
of the race ! . . . 
But to Freedom his breast beats no longer, and 
neither 
Ambition nor action her loss can replace. 

If the time had been spent in acquiring assthetics 
I have squander'd in learning this language of 
midges, 
There might, for my friend in her peripatetics, 
Have been now two asses to help o'er the 
bridges. 

As it is, . . . I'll report her the whole conversation. 
It would have been longer ; but, somehow or 
other, 
(In the midst of that misanthrope's long lamenta- 
tion,) 
A midge in my right eye became a young 
mother. 

Since my friend is so clever, I'll ask her to tell me 
Why the least living thing (a mere midge in the 
egg!) 



160 THE WANDERER. 

Can make a man's tears How, as now it befell me . . 
O you dear clever woman, explain it, I beg ! 



THE LAST TIME THAT I MET LADY 
llUTll. 

There are some Iblnjrs hard to understand. 

() help me, my (ukI, to trust in thee ! 
But 1 never shall foroet her soft white hand, 

And her eyes when she look'd at me. 

It is hard to pray the vei-y same prayer 

Which once at our mother's knee we pray'd — 

When, where we trusted our whole heart, there 
Our trust hath been betray 'd. 

I swear that the milk-white muslin so light 
On her virgin breast, -where it lay demure, 

Seem'd to be toucht to a purer white 
By the touch of a breast so pure. 

I deem'd her the one thing undefiled 

By the air we breathe in a world of sin : 

The truest, the tenderest, purest child 
A man ever trusted in ! 

AVhen she blamed me (she, with her fair child's 
foce !) 

That never with her to the Church I went 
To partake of the Gosi)el of truth and grace, 

And the Christian sacrament, 

And I said I Avould go for her own sweet sake, 
Tho' it was but herself 1 should w^orship there, 

How that happy chiUl's tiice strove to take 
On its dimples a serious air ! 



MATRIMONIAL COUNSELS. 161 

I remember the chair slie would set for me, 
By the flowers, when all the house was gone 

To drive in the Park, and 1 and she 
Were left to be happy alone. 

There she lean'd her head on my knees, my Ruth, 
With the primrose loose in her half-closed hands : 

And I told her tales of my wandering youth 
In the far fair foreign lands. — 

The last time I met her was here in town, 
At a fancy ball at the Duchess of D, 

On the stairs, where her husband was handing her 
down. 
— Tliere we met, and she talk'd to me. 

She, with powder in hair, and patch on chin, 
And I, in the garb of a pilgrim Priest, 

And between us both, without and Avithin, 
A hundred years at least ! 

We talk'd of the House, and the late long rains, 
And the crush at the French Ambassador's ball, 

And . . . well, I have not blown out my brains. 
You see I can laui>h. That is all. 



MATRIMONIAL COUNSELS. 

You are going to marry my pretty relation, 
My dove-like young cousin, so soft in the eyes. 

You are entering on life's settled dissimulation. 
And, if you'd be happy, in season be wise. 

Take my counsel. The more that, in church, you 
are tempted 
To yawn at the sermon, the more you'll attend. 
11 



162 THE WANDEUEU. 

The more you'd from milliner's bills bo exempted, 
The more on your wife's little wishes you'll spend. 

You'll be sure, every Christmas, to send to the 
rector, 
A dozen of wine, and a hamper or two. 
The more your wife plagues you, the more you'll 
respeet her, 
She'll be pleasing your friend, if she's not 
plaguing you. 

For women of course, like ourselves, need emotion; 

And happy the husband, whose failings afford 
To the wife of his heart, such good cause for com- 
motion, 
That she seeks no excitement, save plaguing her 
lord. 

Above all, you'll be careful that nothing offends, 
too. 
Your wife's lady's maid, tho* she give herself 
airs. 
With the friend of a friend it is well to be friends 
too. 
And especially so, when that friend lives upstairs. 

Under no provocation you'll ever avow yourself, 
A little put out when you're kept at the door. 

And you never, I scarcely need say, will allow 
yourself 
To call your wife's mother, a vulgar old bore. 

However she dresses, you'll never suggest to her, 
That her taste, as to colours, could scarcely be 
Avorse, 
Of the rooms in your house, you wdl give up the 
best to her. 
And ) ou never will ask for the carriage, of course. 



SEK-SAW. 163 

If, at times witli a doubt on the soul, and herfuture, 
Revelation, and reason, existence should trouble 
you, 
You'll be always on guard to keep carefully mute 
your 
Ideas on the subject, and read Dr. W. 

Bring a shawl with you, home, when you come from 
the Club, sir, 
Or a ring, lest your wife, when you meet her, 
should pout; 
And don't fly in a rage and behave like a cub, sir, 
If you find that the fire, like yourself, has gone 
out. 

In eleven good instances out of a dozen, 

'Tis the husband's a cur, when the wife is a cat. 

She is meekness itself, my soft-eyed little cousin, 
But a wife has her rights, and I'd have you know 
that. 

Keep my counsel. Life's struggles are brief to be 
borne, friend. 
In Heaven there's no marriage nor giving in 
marriage. 
When Death comes, think how truly your widow 
will mourn, friend, 
And your worth not the best of your friends will 
disparage ! 



SEE-SAW. 

SiiK was a harlot, and I was a thief: 
But we loved each other beyond belief: 
She lived in the garret, and I in the kitchen, 
And love was all that we both were rich in. 



164 THE WANDEllER. 

When they sent her at last to the hospital, 
Both day and niijht my tears did fall ; 
They fell so fast that, to dry their grief, 
I borrow'd my neighbour's handkerchief. 

The world, which, as it is brutally taught, 
Still judges the act in lieu of the thought. 
Found my hand in my neighbour's pocket, 
And clapp'd me, at once, under chain and locket. 

When they ask'd me about it, I told them plain. 
Love it was that had turn'd my brain : 
How should I heed wliere my hand had been, 
When my heart was dreaming of Celestine ? 

Twelve friends were so struck by my woful air, 
That they sent me abroad for change of air : 
And, to prove me the kindness of their intent. 
They sent me at charge of the government. 

When I came back again, — whom, think you, 1 meet 

But Celestine, here, in Regent Street ? 

In a carriage adorn'd with a coronet, 

And a dress, all lloiinces, and lace, and jet : 

For her carriage drew up to the bookseller's door, 
Where they publish those nice little books for the 

poor : 
I took oft' my hat : and my face she knew. 
And gave me — a sermon by Mr. Bellew. 

[book. 
But she gave me (God bless her !) along with the 
Such a sweet sort of smile, such a heavenly look, 
That, as long as I live, I shall never forget 
Celestine, in her coach with the earl's coronet. 

[town ; 
There's a game that men play at in great London- 
Whereby some must go up, sir, and some nmst go 

down : 



BABYLONIA. 165 

And, since the mud sticks to your coat if you fall, 
Why, the strongest among us keep close to the wall. 

But some day, soon or late, in my shoes I shall 

stand. 
More exalted than any great Duke in the land; 
A clean shirt on my back, and a rose in my coat, 
And a collar conferr'd by the Queen round my 

throat. 

And I know that my Celcstine will not forget 
To be there, in her coach with my lord's coronet : 
She will smile to me then, as she smiled to me now : 
I shall nod to her gayly, and make her my bow ; — 

Before I rejoin all those famous old thieves 
Whose deeds have immortalized Home, sir, and 

Greece : 
Whose names are inscribed upon History's leaves, 
Like my own on the books of the City Police : — 

Alexander, and Caesar, and other great robbers. 
Who once tried to pocket the whole universe : — 
Not to speak of our pwn parliamentary jobbers. 
With their hands, bless them all, in the popular 
purse ! 



BABYLONIA. 

Enough of simpering, and grimace ! 

Enough of damning one's soul for nothing ! 
Enough of Vacuity trimm'd with lace ! 

And Poverty proud of her purple clothing ! 
In Babylon, whene'er there's a wind, 

(Whether it blow rain, or whether it blow sand,) 
The weathercocks change their mighty mind ; 

And the weathercocks are forty thousand. 



166 THE WANDERER. 

Forty thousand weathercocks, 

Each well-minded to keep his place, 

Turning about in the great and small ways ! 
Each knows, whatever the weather's shocks, 
That the wind will never blow in his face ; 
And in Babylon the wind blows always. 

I cannot tell how it may strike you, 

But it strikes me now, for the first and last time, 
That there may be better things to do, 

Than watching the weathercocks for pastime. 
And I wish I were out of Babylon, 

Out of sight of column and steeple, 
Out of fashion and form, for one, 

And out of the midst of this double-faced people. 
Enough of catgut ! Enough of the sight 
Of the dolls it sets dancing all the night ! 

For there is a notion come to me, 
As here, in Babylon, I am lying, 

That far away, over the sea, 

And under another moon and star. 
Braver, more beautiful beings are dying 
(Dying, not dancing, dying, dying !) 
To a music nobler far. 

Full well I know that, before it came 
To inhabit this feeble, faltering frame, 

My soul was weary ; and, ever since then, 

It has seem'd to me, in the stir and bustle 
Of this eager Avorld of women and men, 
That my life was tired before it began, 
That even the child had fatigued the man, 
And brain, and heart, have done their part 
To wear out sinew and muscle. 

Yet, sometimes, a wish has come to me. 
To wander, Avander, I know not where, 

Out of the sight of all that I see. 

Out of the hearing of all that I hear ; 



BABYLONIA. 167 

Where only the tawny, bold, wild beast 
Roams his realms ; and find, at least, 

The strenfjth which even the beast finds there. 
A joy, tho' but a savase joy ; — 

Were it only to find the food I need. 
The scent to track, and the force to destroy, 

And the very appetite to feed ; 
The bliss of the sense without the thought. 
And the freedom, for once in my life, from aught 

That fills my life with care. 

And never this thought hath so wildly crost 

My mind, with its wildering, strange temptation. 
As just when I was enjoying the most 

The blessings of what is call'd Civilization : — 
The glossy boot which tightens the foot ; 

The club at which my friend was black-ball'd 
(I am sorry, of course, but one must be ex- 
clusive) ; 
The yellow kid glove whose shape I approve, 
And the journal in which I am kindly call'd 
Whatever's not libellous — only abusive : 
The ball to which I am careful to go. 

Where the folks are so cool, and the rooms are 

so hot ; 
The opera, which shows one what music — is not ; 
And the simper from Lady .... but why should 
you know V 

Yet, I am a part of the things I despise. 

Since my life is bound by their common span : 
And each idler I meet, in square or in street, 

Hath within him what all that's without him be- 
lies, — 
The miraculous, infinite heart of man. 

With its countless capabilities ! 

The sleekest guest at the general feast. 
That at every sip, as he sups, says grace, 

Hath in him a touch of the untamed beast ; 



168 THE WAXDKRKK. 

And change of nature is change of place. 
The judge on tlie bench, and the scamp at the 
dock, 
Have, in each of them, nuich that is common to 
both ; 
Each is part of the parent stock, 

And their ditVerence comes of their di He rent 
cU^th. 
'Twixt the Seven Dials and Exeter Ilall 

The gulf that is fix'd is not so wide : 
And the fool that, last year, at Her :\[aiesty's Ball, 

Sicken'd me so Avith his simjier of pride. 
Is the hero now heard of, the iirst on the wall, 
With the bayonet-wound in his side. 

Oh, for the times which were (if any 
Time be heroic) heroic indeed ! 
When the men were few, 
And the deeds to do 
Were mighty, and many. 

And each man in his hand held a noble deed. 
Now the deeds are few, 
And the men are many, 

And each man has, at most, but a noble need. 

Blind fool ! . . . I know that all acted time 

By that which succeeds it, is ever received 
As calmer, completer, and more sublime, 
Only because it is iinish'd : because 
We only behold the thing it achieved ; 
AVe behold not the thing that it was. 
For, while it stamls whole, and immutable. 

In the marble of memory, — we, who have seen 
But the statue before us. — how can we tell 

What the men that have hewn at the block may 
have been ? 
Their passion is merged in its passionlessness ; 

Their strife in its stillness closed t'orever: 
Their change upon change in its changelessness : 



HAIJYLONIA. 169 

Tn its final acliievenient,tlieirfeverisli endeavour: 
Who knows how sculptor on sculptor starved 
With the tliought in the head by the hand un- 

carved V 
And he that spread out in its ample repose 

That ^rand, indilFerent, godlike brow, 
How vainly iiis own may have ached, who knows, 

'Twixt the laurel above and the wrinkle below ? 

So again to Babylon I come back, 

Where this fett(;r'd giant of Human Nature 

Cramp'd in limb, and constraint in stature, 

In the torture-chamber of Vanity lies ; 

Helpless and weak, and conipell'd to speak 
The things he nmst despise. 

You stars, so still in the midnight blue, 

Which over these huddling roof's I view. 
Out of reach of tliis Babylonian riot, — 
We so restless, and you so ([uiet. 

What is difference 'twixt us and you ? 

You each may have pined with a pain divine, 

For augiit I know. 
As wildly as this weak heart of mine, 

In an Age ago : 
For whence should you have that stern repose, 
Which, here, dwells but on the brows of those 

Who have lived, and survived life's fever, 
Had you never known the ravage and fire 
Of that inexpressible Desire, 
Which wastes and calcines whatever is less 
In the soul, than the soul's deep consciousness 

Of a life that shall last forever ? 

Doubtless, doubtless, again and again. 
Many a mouth has starved for bread 

In a city whose wharves are choked with corn; 
And many a heart hath perish'd dead 
From being too utterly forlorn, 



170 Tin: WANOKHKK, 

In a i'ity whoso stivots are t'liokM wltli moii. 
Yot the bread is thoiv, ooiiUi one liml it out 
And tliore is a heart tor a heart, no doubt, 

Wherever a human heart may beat ; 
And room tor emtraiie, antl trutli, and love. 
To move, wherever a man may move, 
In the thiekUest erowiled street. 

O Lonl of the soul of man, whose will 
Made earth tor man, and man for iieaven, 

llel}> all thy ereatures to fultil 
The hopes to eaeh one j^iven I 

So fair thou matl'st, and so eomj^lete. 

The little daisies at our teet ; 

So sound, and so robust in heart. 

The jKttient beasts, that bear their part 

In this world's labour, never askiui*: 

The reason of it^ eeaseless taskiuii' ; 

Hast thou made man, tho' more in kind, 

l>v reason of his soul and mind. 

Yet less in unison with lit'e, 

Hy reason of an inward strife. 

Than these, thy simpler ereatures, are. 

Submitted to his use and eare ? 

For these, indeed, appear to live 

To the full verge of their own power. 
Nor ever need that tin\e shouhl uive 

To life one spaee beyond the hour. 
They do not pine for what is not ; 

Nor quarrel with the thinjis whieh are ; 
Their yesterdays are all forgot ; 

Their morrows are not tearM tVom far : 
They do not weep, and wail, anil moan. 

For what is past, or what's to be. 

Or what's not yet, and may be never; 
They do not their own lives disown, 

Nor haggle with eternity 

For some unknown Forever. 



HA15YL0MA. 171 

All yot, — in tliis must I belicvo 

That man is nobler than the rest : — 
That, lookinrr in on his own breast, 

He measures thus his strength and size 
With supernatural d(;stinies, 

Wliose shades o'er all his being fall ; 
And, in that dn-ad comparison 
'Twixt what is deem'd and what is done, 
He can, at intervals, perceive 

How weak, he is, and small. 

Therefore, he knows himself a child. 

Set in this rudimental star, 
To learn the alphabet of Reing ; 
By straws dismay'd, by toys beguil'd. 

Yet conscious of a home afar ; 

With all things here but ill agreeing, 
Because he trusts, in nianhood's prime, 
To walk in some celestial clime ; 
Sit in his FathiM-'s house; and be 
The inmate of Eternity. 



BOOK I y . 

IN SWITZERLAND. 

THE HEART AND NATURE. 

The lako ijs calm ; and, calm, tlie skies 

In yonder silent sunset olow, 
Where, o'er the woodland, homeward flies 

The solitary crow ; 

The woodman to his lint is gone ; 

The wood-dove in the elm is still ; 
The last sheep drinks, and wanders on 

To graze at Avill. 

Nor aught the pensive prospect breaks. 
Save where my slow feet stir the grass, 

Or where the trout to diamonds breaks 
The lake's pale glass. 

No moan the cushat makes, to heave 
A leaflet round her windless nest ; 

The air is silent in the eve ; 
The world's at rest. 

All bright below ; all calm above ; 

No sense of" pain, no sign of w-rong ; 
Save in thy heart of hopeless love, 

Poor child of Song ! 



THE IIKAIIT AXD NATURE. 173 

Wliy must the soul tliro' Nature rove, 
At variance with lier general plan ? 

A stranger to the Power, whose love 
Soothes all save Man V 

Why lack the strength of meaner creatures ? 

The wandering sheep, the grazing kine, 
Are surer of their simple natures 

Than I of mine. 

For all their wants the poorest land 

Affords supply ; they browse and breed ; 

I scarce divine, and ne'er have found, 
What most I need. 

O God, that in this human heart 
Hath made Belief so hard to grow, 

And set the doubt, the pang, the smart 
In all we know — 

Why hast thou, too, in solemn jest 
At this tormented thinking-power, 

Inscribed, in flame on yonder West, 
In hues on every flower, 

Thro' all the vast unthinking sphere 

Of mere material Force without, 
Rebuke so vehement and severe 

To the least doubt ? 

And robed the world and hung the night, 
With silent, stern, and solemn forms; 

And strown with sounds of awe, and might. 
The seas and storms ; — 

All lacking power to impart 

To man the secret he assails, 
But arm'd to crush him, if his heart 

Once doubts or fails ! 



171 TIIK >VANl>KKl':U. 

To luako him tool the same forlorn 
Despair, tlio Fioiul hath loll oro now, 

In <>aziiiii- at tho stoni swoot sroiii 
On Miohaol'ti brow. 



A CiUlET MOMENT. 

Stay with mo, Tiatly, Avhilo you may ! 

For lif'o's so sail, — this hour's so swoet; 
Ah, Laily, — lit'o too louo- will stay ; 

Too soon this hour will Jloot. 

IIow fair this mountain's purj)lo bust, 
Alone in high and liliunnorinii- air ! 

And see, . . . those villauo spiros, uj)thrust 
From yon dark plain, — liow tair! 

How swoot yiu) louo ami lovoly soono, 
AtuI yondor droppiuji- fiory i)all. 

And ovo's swoot spirit, that steals, unsei'u. 
With ilaiknoss o\or all ! 

1'his blessed hour is yours, and eve's ; 

And this is why it seems so sweet, 
To lie, as husht as tiillen leaves 

In autumn, at your loot ; 

And wateh, awhile released iVt>m oaro, 
Tho twiliiilU in yon ipiiet skies, 

Tho twilight in youv (piiot hair, 
The twiliiiht in your eyes : 

Till in n\y soul tho twilight stays, 

— Eve's twilloht, sinoe the dawn's is o'er! 

And life's too well-known worthless days 
Beeome unknown oneo more. 



A QUIET MOMKNT. 175 

Your fciue is no iincomnion face ; 

\j\ki', it, I have seen many a one, 
And may a^^ain, before my race 

Of care l)C wholly run. 

But not th(; less, those earnest brows, 
And that pure oval cheek can charm ; — 

Those eyes of tender deej) re[)ose ; 
That l;reast, the heart keeps warm. 

Because a sense of ^loodness sleeps 

In every sober, soft, brown tress, 
"^riiat o'er those brows, uncared for, keeps 

Its shadowy (juietness : 

Because that lip's soft silence shows, 
'I'ho' f)assion it hath n(!ver known, 

That well, to kiss one kiss, it knows — 
— A wonmn's holiest one ! 

Yours is tlie charm of calm good sense. 
Of wholesome views of eai'th and heaven, 

Of f)ity, touch'd with reverence, 
To all things freely given. 

Your face no sleepless midnight fills, 
For all its seritnis sweet endeavour ; 

It i)lants no pang, no rapture thrills. 
But ah ! — it pleases ever ! 

Not yours is Cleopatra's eye, 

And Juliet's tears you never knew : 

Never will amorous Antony 
Kiss kingdoms out for you ! 

Never for you will Romeo's love. 

From de('[)s of moonlit musing, break 

To ])oetry about the glove 

Whose touch may press your cheek. 



170 Till: WANUKKKK. 

Hut ah, in ono, — no Antony 

Nor KonuM now, nor like to tluso, — 

(A\ liom nolthor Cleopatra's ovo, 
Nor JuliotV tears, eonUl [ileasiO 

How well thov Inll tlie lurklnu' earo 

Whieh olso within the minil emlures, — 

That sott white haml, that soft dark hair, 
Ami that sott voiee of yonrs ! 

80, whik^ yon staml, a fragile form. 

With that elose shawl aronml you ilrawn, 

Ami eve's last ardours tailing warm 
Adown the mountain lawn, 

'Tis sweet, although we part to-morrow. 
And ne'er, the same, shall meet again. 

Awhile, t'rom old habitual sorrow- 
To eease ; to eease t'rom pain ; 

To feel that, ages past, the soul 

Hath lived — and ages henee will live ; 

And taste, in hours like this, the whole 
C)f all the }ears ean give. 

Then, Lady, yet one moment stay. 

While your sweet faee makes all things sweet. 
For ah, the eharm will |x\ss away 

Bet'ore again we meet I 



SoFr, soft be thy sleep in the land of the West, 

Fated maiden I 
Far lie the llowers, love, and light, on thy breast 

Passion-laden, 



n;i<:ni^':. 177 

III tlic place wbere thou art, by tlie storm-beaten 
strand 

Of the moaninjij Atlantic, 
While, alone with my sorrow, I roam thro' thy land, 

The belov'd, \\n', romantic ! 
And thy faults, child, sleep where in those dark 
eyes JJeath closes 

All their doings and undoings ; 
For who counts the thorns on last year's perLsht 
roses V 

Smile, dead rose, in thy ruins ! 
With thy beauty, its frailty is over. No token 

Of all which thou wast ! 
Not so much as the stem whence the blossom was 
broken 

Hath been spared by the frost. 
With thy lips, and thine eyes, and thy long golden 
tresses, 

Cold . . . and so young too ! 
All lost, like the sweetness which died with our 
kisses, 

On the lips we once clung to. 
Be it so ! O too loved, and too lovely, to linger 

AVliere Age in its bareness 
Creeps slowly, and Time with his terrible finger 

Effaces all fairness. 
Thy being was but beauty, thy life only rapture, 

And, ere both were over. 
Or yet one delight had escaped from thy capture. 

Death came, — thy last lover, 
And found thee, ... no care on thy brow, in thy 
tresses 

No silver — all gold there I 
On thy lips, when he kiss'd them, their last human 
kisses 

Had scarcely grown cold there. 
Thine was only earth's joy, not its sorrow, its 
sinning. 

Its friends that are foes too. 
12 



17S IIIK \\ ANDI'.in'.K. 

Oil lair was (hy liti> in its lovt^ly Ix'oimiinuf, 

And lair in its closi> too ! 
l)iit I ? . , . sini'c wo partoil, bolli inourMriil ami 
many 

Lilo's cliauiios liavo Iuhmi lo \ni' : 
And of all tho lovi'-^arlands ^'outh wovo mo, not 
any 

l\omain that i\rc urtHMi to mo. 
Oil, wluMo AW [\\c nights, with thy tiMu-h, and Ihy 
hroalh in thom, 

Faint witii hoart-boatinir ? 
The tVajjrani'O, tho davknoss, iho lil'o and the doath 
in thiMn, 

— Partinii' and nuH>tinii? 
All tho world onrs in that lu>nr ! . . . oh, th.o siliMU'C, 

The moonliiiht, aiul, far in it, 
Oh Iho oni> nijihtinualo singint^ a mile honco ! 

VUc opod wind«)w — one star in it! 
Solo witiu>ss iA' stolon swoot moments, nn^nest oi' 

Hy the world in its primness; — 
.Inst one smile to adore hy the starliolit : the ri'st oi' 

Thy sonl in the dimness ! 
If I i:;liilo thro' tho (Uhu* of thy ohambor, and sit 
thoio, 

Tho old, faint, niu'orlain 
FraovaneiN that tollow'd thee, snroly will Hit there, — 

O'er the i-hairs, — in tho enrtain : — 
Hnt thon y . . . () tluni missM, and tiiou monrn'il, 
one I oh never, 

Nevermore, shall we rove 
Thro' elunnbor, t)r garden, or by tho dark river 

Soft lamps burn above ! 
O dead, ehild, iloaxl, iload — all the shrnnken ro- 
mance 

Of the droam lite bounn with ! 
Bnt thon, lovo,eanst alter no more — smlh> or lilaneo ; 

Thy last ehanjio is done with. 
As a moon that is sunken, a sunset that's o'er, 

So thy faoo keeps the semblance 



NACNI^:. 179 

Of the last look of love;, tjio last <rr,i('(i that it wore, 

III tny inouiTHii^ rtMiKMiihrancc. 
As a .strain from the last of thy songs, when we 
part(!(], 

Whose echoes thrill yet, 
Thio' the lonji; dreamless nights of sad years, lonely- 
hcartccJ, 

W^ith their haunting regret, — 
Tho' nerveless the hand now, and shatter'd the lute 
too. 

Once vocal for me, 
There floats thi-o' life's ruins, when all's dark and 
mute too, 

'i'he music of thee ! 
Hcauty, how brief! Life, how long ! . . , well, love's 
(June now ! 

J)own tht! path fate arranged for me 
I tread faster, be(;aus(! 1 must tread it alone now. 

— Tliis is all that is changed for me. 
My heart must hav(; broken, ere 1 broke the fetter 

Thyself didst un(Jo, love. 
— Ah, there's many a purer, and many a better, 

Jiut more hjved, . . . oh, how few, love ! — 



15 K V. 

IN HOLLAND. 

— ♦ — 

AUTUIMN. 

So !U)w. tluMi, Siunmcr's over — by »lcL!;ri'CS. 
Ilai'U ! '(is the wind in yon red region griovos. 
Who says llie world grows better, i»rowin<» old ? 
See ! what poor trnni|)ery on those pauper trees, 
That cannot keep, I'or all their (ine gold leaves, 
'i'heir last bird tVoni the cold. 

This is Dame Nature, ]MU'ker'd, ])ineh'd, and sour, 
Of all (he eharnis, her poets ])rais(.'d, bereft, 
Scowling, and scolding (only lu>ar her, there !) 
Jiike (hat old s[)itefnl (^iieen. in hei- last hour, 
Whom S[)enser, Shakespeare sung to . . . nothing 
left 
But wrinkles, and red hair ! 



LEAFLESS IIOUKS. 

TiiK pale sun, thro' (he sjiectral wood, 
Gleams si)arely, where 1 pass: 

My Ibotst*^}), silent as my mood, 
Falls in the silent grass. 



ON MY TWKNTY-FOUllTII YKAR. 181 

Only my sliadovv yxMiits before mc, 

AVlioro I am movlti;; now: 
Only sad memories murmur o'er me 

From every h'alless bou<!;h : 
And out of llie nest of last year's Redbi'east 

Is stolen the very snow. 



ON MY TWENTY-FOURTH YEAR. 

TiiK ni<i;]it's in Novenibcr : the winds are at strife : 
The snow's on the hill, and the ic(! on the mere : 

The world to its winter is turn'd : and my life 
1 o its twenty-fourth year. 

The swallows are flown to tlie south long ago : 
The roses are fallen : the woodland is sere. 

Hope's down with the swallows : Love's rose will 
not grow 
In my twenty-fourth year. 

The snow on the thresliold : the cold at the heart : 
But the fagot to warm, and the wine-cup to 
cheer : 

God's hel{) to look up to : and courage to start 
On my twenty-fourth year. 

And 'tis well that the month of the roses is o'er ! 

The last, which I i)luck'd for NcM^jea to wear, 
She gave her new lover. A man should do more 

With iiis twenty-fourth year 

Than mourn for a woman, because she's unkind, 
Or pii»e for a woman, be(;ause she is fair. 

Ah, I loved you Nera'a ! Rut now . . . never mind, 
'Tis my twenty-fourth year ! 



1M2 TUK ^^AN1)KUK1^ 

What a Ihlnj:;! to have done wl(h the. follies of 
Youth," 

Kvo Aiiv brinirs its follies! . . . tho' many a ti'ar 
ll should cost, to see l-,ove lly away, and find Truth 

In one's twenty-fourth year. 

The Past's o-olden valleys are drain'd. I must j)lant 
On the Future's rouuh upland new harvests, 1 fear. 
llo, the plough and the team ! . . . who would per- 
ish of want. 
In Ills twenty-fourth year? 

Man's heart is a well, whieh forever renews 

The void at the bottom, no soundini:; eomos near : 

And Love does not die, tho' its objeet I lose 
In my twenty-iburth ycMr. 

The ijreat and the little are only in name. 

The smoke i'vom my ehimney easts shadows as 
drear 
On the heart, as the smoke from Vesuvius in (lame : 

And my twenty-l()urlh year. 

From the joys that have eheer'd it, the eares that 
have troubled. 

What is wise to pursue, what is well to revere, 
INlav jud«ii> all as fully as tho' life Avere doubled 

'Lo its tbrty-eighth year. 

If the pros{)eet srrow dim, 'tis because it grows wide. 

Every loss hath its gain. So, from sphere on to 
sphere, 
Man mounts up the ladder of Time : so 1 stride 

Up my twenty-fourth year ! 

Exulting ? . . . no . . . sorrowing V .... no with a 

mind 
Whose regret chastens hope, whose faith triumphs 
o'er tear : 



JAOCiUKLINP:. 183 

Nol, rcpliiin;^' : not coiiridcnt : no, but rcsign'd 
To my tvventy-fotirlli ycur. 



JACQUELINE, 

COIINTESM OK HOLLAND AM) HAINAITLT* 

Ih it, llic. tvvili;.rlit, or my fading wght, 
M;ikcs ;ill so dim around me V No, the niglit 
Is coine alrcndy. Sec ! tln-o' yonder pane, 
Alone in tlu; ;^ray air, that star n<^ii'\n — 
Which shines so wan, I used toe;ill it mine 
For its pah', lace ; like Countess Jac(|uc;line 
Who rei<^n'd in IJrabant once . . . tliat's years ago. 
I call'd so much mine, then : so much seem'd so ! 
And see, my own I — of all those tilings, my star 
(IJecause (iod hung it there, in heaven, so far 
Above the reach and want of those; hard men) 
Is all th<!y liave not tak<ui from me. Then 
I call it still My Star. Why not V The (hist 
J lath (^laini'd the dust : no more. And moth and 

rust 
May rot tlu; throne, tin; kingly purple fray : — 
What then V Yon star saw kingdoms roU'd away 
ICi-e mine was takcm from nui. Jt surviv<;s. 
Ibit thiidc, lielov'd,— in that high life of lives. 
When our sf)nls see the suns themselv(\s burn low 
Uefon; that Sun of Kightcsousness, — and know 
What is, and was, before the suns were lit — 
How Love is all in all . . . Look, look at it, 

* \V1h. wmm nijin-icd l,u tlic iin|.ot(-iit iiiid vvortlilcHH John of 
I'.rnJ.Jinl, iiniMiiccd U> " n,,,,,! niikd Jliiinphry," of (Houccstor, 
niid liiiiill.v wcililcd U> Km.nk von ISorscilcri, a Kontlcrnan of Zea- 
liiiid, ill coiistMiiiciicc <tr which inii,rriaf:;n hIio loHt ovon tlio title 
of OoinitcsM. Siic died nt tlu! jtKc of thirty .six. after a life of 
uiip.iriillclcd iidvciitun! and nii.sfortuiic. See any JJiographical 
JUition.iry, or any Ilintory of the Netherlands. 



IS I rUK NV ANPKKFK. 

]My star — (i(h1\-^ star —for Iu'Imi;' CumI's 'tis niiju*: 
llail it boon mairs. , . no mattor . , . soo it sluno — 
Tho old wan boani, whioh I havo ^vatohVi oro now 
So n»any a wrotohod nijiht, whon tliis poor brow 
AohM 'noath tho sorrows ot" its thorny orown. 
Its cro(rn .' . . . ah, ilroo[> not, doar, thoso ibnd oyos 

down. 
No ii'oni in all that shattorM ooronot 
^Vas halt" so prooions as tho toar which wot 
,Inst now this palo siok t'oroluvul. O my own. 
My hnsband, nood was, that I shonld havo knmvn 
Aluoh sorrow, — more than most Qnoons — all know 

somo, — 
Kro, dyinii', 1 oonld bloss thoo for tho homo 
Far tloaivr than tho Palaoo, — oall thy toar, 
Tho oostliost gom that ovor s{»arklod liore. 

I'utold mo, my UoKnOii. ()no moro kiss. 
Oh, 1 nuist go I 'Twas willM I shonld not miss 
Lito's soorot, ero 1 loft it. And now soe — 
^ly lips touoh thino — thino arm onoirolos me — 
Tho soorot's t'onnd — Ciod bookons — I mnst go. 
Earth's bost is givon. — lloavon's turn is oonio to 

slu>w 
How nuu'h its bost oarth's bost may yot oxoeed, 
Lost oarth's should soom tho vory bost indoed. 
So wo nuist part a littlo ; but not long. 
1 soom to soo it all. ]My laiuls bolong 
To Philip still ; but thino will bo my gravo, 
(Tho only strip oi' land whioh 1 oonld s;ivo I) 
Not nuioh, but wido onough tlir somo t'ow tlowers, 
Thou'lt plant thoro, by and by, in lator hou^-s: 
l)uko Ihnnphry, Avhon thoy toll him I am doad 
(And so voung too I) will sigh, and shako his head. 
And it' Ins wito should ohido, ** Poor Jaotpieline," 
Ilo'll add, " yon know sho never oonld bo mine." 
And men will say, whon some one speaks of me, 
'• Alas, it was a piteous history. 
The life of that poor Countess ! " For the rest 



JACQUELINE. 185 

Will nover know, my love, liow I was }>le.st. 
Sonic i'tiw of my [)oor Zealanders, perchance, 
Will ke(!p kind memories of me ; an<l in France 
Some min.str(;l sin;r my story. Pitiless John 
Will prosper still, no doubt, as he has done, 
And still praise God with blood upon the Rood. 
Philip will, doubtless, still be cali'd " The Good." 
And men will curse and kill : and tlu; old ^aine 
Will weary out new hands : the love of fame 
Will sow new sins: thou wilt not be renown'd : 
And 1 shall lie fjuite quiet under ^^round. 
My life is a torn book. But at the end 
A little paj;e, (piite fair, is saved, my friend, 
Where thou didst write thy name. No stain is 

there, 
No blot, — from marge to marge, all pure — no 

tear ; — 
The last page, saved from all, and writ by thee. 
Which I shall take safe up to Heaven with me. 
All's not in vain, since this be so. JJost grieve ? 
Beloved, J beseech thee to believe 
Altho' this be the last page of my life, 
It is my heart's first, only one. Thy wife, 
Poor tho' she be, O thou sole wealth of mine, 
Is happier than the Countess Jacqueline! 

And since my heart owns thine, say — am I not 

A (^ueen, my chosen, tho' by all forgot V 

Tho' all forsake, yet is not this thy hand? 

I, a lone wanderer in a darken'd land, 

I, a poor pilgrim with no staff of hope, 

I, a late traveller down the evening slope. 

Where any spark, the glow-worm's by the way. 

Had been a light to bless . . . have I, oh say, 

Not found, Beloved, in thy tender eyes, 

A light more sweet than morning's V As there 

dies 
Some day of storm all glorious in its even, 
My life grows loveliest as it fades in heaven. 



186 TIIK WANDERKR. 

This earthly house breaks up. This llesh must 

fade.* 
So many shocks of grief slow breach have made 
In the poor frame. Wrongs, insults, treacheries, 
Hopes broken down, and memory which sighs 
In. like a night wind ! l^ife was never m(?ant 
To bear so much in sut'h frail tenement. 
Why should we seek to patch and plaster o'er 
This shatter'd roof, crusht windows, broken door, 
The light already shines thro' ? Let them break ! 

Yet wouUl 1 gladly live for thy dear sake, 

O my heart's first and last, if that could be ! 

In vain ! . . . yet grieve not thou. I shall not see 

England again, and those white elitfs ; nor ever 

Again those four gray towers beside the river, 

And London's roaring bridges : never more 

Those windows with the market-stalls before, 

Where the red-klrtled market-girls went by 

In the great square, beneath the great gray sky, 

In Brussels : nor in llolhind, night or day, 

AVatch those long lines of siege, and light at bay 

Among my broken army, in default 

Of Gloucester's failing tbrees from Ilainault : 

Nor shall I pace again those gardens green, 

AVith their dipt alleys, where they call'd me Queen, 

In Brabant once. For all these things are gone ; 

But thee I shall behold, my chosen one, 

Tho' we should seem whole worlds on worlds apart, 

Because thou wilt be ever in my heart. 

Nor shall I leave thee wholly. I shall be 

An evening thought. — a morning dream to thee, — 

A silence in thy life when, thro' the night, 

The bell strikes, or the sun, with sinking light, 

Smites all the em{>ty windows. As there sprout 

Daisies, and dimpling tut\s of violets, out 

Among the grass where some corpse lies asleep, 

So round thy life, where I lie buried deep, 

A thousand little tender thoughts shall spring. 



JACQUELINE, 187 

A thousand frcntlo nu-morics wind, and cling. 

Oh, promise me, my own, bcifore my soul 

Is liouseless, — let the great world turn and roll 

U[)on its way unvcxt Its pomps, its ])owers ! 

The dust says to the dust, ..." the earth is ours." 
I would not, if I could, be (^uoen again 
For all the walls of the wide world contain. 
Be thou content with silence. Wlio would raise 
A little dust and noise of human praise, 
If he could see, in yonder distance dim, 
The silent eye of God that watches him? 
Oh ! couldst thou see all that I see to-night 
Upon the brinks of the gi-eat Infinite ! 

" Come out of her, my people, lest ye be 

Partakers of her sins ! " My love, but we 

Our treasure where no thieves break in and steal 
Have stored, I trust. Earth's weal is not our weal. 
Let the world mind its business — peace or war; 
Ours is elsewhere. Look, look, — my star, my star ! 
It grows, it glows, it spreads in light unfurl'd; — 
Said I " my star ? " No star — a world — God's 

world ! 
What hymns adown the jasper sea are roll'd, 
Even to these sick pillows ! Who enfold 

AVhite wings about me V llest, rest, rest I come ! 

O Love ! 1 think that I am near my home. 
Whence was that music V Was it Heaven's I 

heard ? 
Write " Blessed are the dead that die i' the Lord, 
Because they rest," . . . because their toil is o'er. 
The voice of weeping shall be heard no more 
In the Eternal city. Neither dying 
Nor sickness, pain nor sorrow, neither crying, 
For God shall wipe away all tears. Rest, rest. 
Thy hand, my husband, — so — upon thy breast ! 



188 TIIK WANDKKKK 



MACROMICROS. 

It is the star of solitude, 

Alight in yon lonely sky. 
The sea is silent in its mood, 

Motheilike moaning a lullaby, 

To hush the hungering mystery 
To sleep on its breast subdued. 

The night is aloue, and I. 

It is not the seene I am seeing, 

The lonely sky and the sea, 
It is the pathos of Being 

That is making so dark in me 
This silent and solemn hour: — 
The bale of ba tiled power, 

The Avail of unbatUed desire, 
The tire that must ever devour 

The souree by which it is lire. 

INIy spirit expands, expands ! 

I spread out my soul on the sea. 
I feel for yet nntbund lands, 

And I find but the hnul Avhere She 
Sits, Avith her sad "white hands. 

At her gohlen broidery. 
In sight of the sorrowful sands, 

In an antique gallery, 
AVhere, ever beside her, stands 

(Moodily mimieking me) 
The ghost of a something her heart demands 

For a blessing Avhieh cannot be. 

And broider, broider by night and day 
The brede of thy blazing broidery ! 

Till thy beairty be wholly woven away 
Into the desolate tapestry. 



MACKOMICROS. 189 

Let the thread be scarlet, the gold be gay, 
For the damp to dim, and the moth to fray : 

AVeave in the azure, and crimson, and green ! 
Till the slow threads, needling out and In, 
To take a fashion and form begin : 
Yet, for all the time and toil, I see 
The work is vain, and will not be 

Like what it was meant to have been. 

woman, woman, with face so pale ! 
Pale woman, weaving away 

A frustrate life at a lifeless loom, 
Early or late, 'tis of little avail 

That thou lightest the lamp in the gloom.- 
Full well, I see, there is coming a day 

When the work shall forever rest incomplete. 
Fling, fling the foolish blazon away. 
And weave me a winding sheet ! 

It is not for thee, in this dreary hour, 

That I walk, companlonless here by the shore. 

1 am caught in the eddy and whirl of a power 
Which is not grief, and is not love, 

Tho' it loves, and grieves. 
Within me, without me, wherever I move 

In the going out of the ghostly eves, 
And is changing me more and more. 
I am not mourning for thee, altho' 

I love thee, and thou art lost : 
Nor yet for myself, albeit I know 

That my life is flaw'd and crost : 
But for that sightless, sorrowing Soul 

That is feeling, blind with immortal pain, 

All round, for what it can never attain ; 
That prison'd, pining, and passionate soul, 

So vast, and yet so small ; 

That seems, now nothing, now all. 

That moves me to pity beyond control, 

And repulses pity again. 



190 rilK WANOKKKU. 

1 ;m\ nunirnlnu, siiii'o n\i>urn 1 nmst, 
Willi those pationt Powers tliat boar, 
'Noatli tho unattainablo stars up tliore. 

With tho pomp an*! pall oi' tiiuoral, 

Subjoi't ami yt>t aiiuust, 

Tho woiiiht ot" this woiKl's dust : — 

Tho ruiuM iiiaut uudor tho rook : 

Tho strirkoti spirit boloNv tho oeoau : 

And tho \viuu;M thiuus wouudod ot" old by tho 
slunk 
That sot tho oarth iu motion. 

Ah yot. . . . anil yot. ami yot. 

It' Sho woro hore with mo. 

It" sho woro horo by tho soa, 
With tho. t'aoo I oannot t'oruot. 

Thou all thiug-s would not bo 
So tVauiiht with own rogrot, 

Hut what I should fool, and soo, 
And soi/o it at last, at last,— 
Tho seorot known and lost in tho past. 

To unsoal tho (lonii that sloop 

In'vials long- hid in tho doop ; 
l>y t"orgotton, t'ashionloss spoils hoKl t'ast, 
Whoro thro' stroots of tho oitios ot' ooral, aghikiit, 

riio soa-nymphs wandor and woop. 



MYSTKUY. 

The hour was ono of mystery, 
AVhon we were s^iiling, I and she, 

Down the dark, the silent stivam. 
The stars aln^ve were pale with love. 
Ami a wizard wind did faintly move, 

Like a whisper thro' a divam. 



iMVHTKllV, 191 

Her Ikj.'u] was on my breast, 

Her l()\in^' littNi head! 
]I(;r' liatid in nnuv, was prn^sf, 

And not a word we .said ; 
Hut round and round tlic ni;;}it we wound, 

Till w(* came at last to the IsN; of Fays; 
And, all llie while, from th(i ma;.'i(; isle, 

(Jarjie that nujsic, that music of other days! 

The, lam[)S in the j^arden <jleam'd. 

The ]*alae(j was all alij^ht. 
'I'Ik^ sound of the viols streain'd 

'i'hro' th(; windows over the ni;f;ht. 
We saw th(i dancers pass 

At the windows, two by two. 
The <iew was on the f^rass, 

And the ;^low-worni in the dew. 

W(! came thro' the ^rass to the cyprcss-trce. 
We stood in its shadow, I and she. 
" 1'hy face is pale, thine eyes are wild. 
Wiiat aileth thee, what aileth thee V " 

" Nou;j;ht aileth me," she murmur'd mild, 
" Only the moonlif^ht makes me pale ; 
The mf)onli^ht, shirn'n<^ thro' the ved 
Of this black cypress-tree." 

" liy yonder moon, whose lij^Iit so soon 

Will fade upon the jiloom, 
And this black tree, whose mystery 

Is niin^';led with the tomb, — 
By Lovci's Ijrief moon, and Deatli's dark tree, 
Lovest thou me V " 

Uf)on my breast slie Ican'd her head ; 

" Jjy yonder moon ancl tree, 
I swear tliat all my soul," she said, 

" Js given to thee." 



192 THE AVANDERER. 

'' I know not what thy soul may be, 

Nor canst thou make it mine. 
Yon stars may all be worlds : for me 

Enough to know they shine. 
Thou art mine evenino; star. I know 

At dawn star-distant thou Avilt be : 
I shall not hear thee murmuring low; 

Thy face I shall not see. 
I love thy beauty : 'twill not stay : 
Let it be all mine while it may. 

I have no bliss save in the kiss 
Thou givest me." 

We came to the statue carved in stone, 
Over the fountain. We stood there alone. 

" What aileth thee, that thou dost sigh ? 

And why is thy hand so cold ? " 
" 'Tis the fountain that sighs," . . . she said, . . 
'• not I ; 

And the statue, whose hand thou dost hold." 

" By yonder fount, that flows forever. 
And this statue, that cannot move, — 

By the fountain of Time, that ceases never, 
And the "fixedness of Love, — 

By motion and immutability 

Lovest thou me ? " 

" By the fountain of Time, with its ceaseless flow, 
And the image of Love that rests," sigh'd she, 

" I love thee I swear, come joy," come woe 
For eternity ! " 

" Eternity is a word so long 

That I cannot spell it noAv : 
For the nightingale is singing her song 

From yon pomegranate bough. 
Let it mean what it may — Eternity, 



MYSTERY. 193 

If thou lovest me now as I love thee, 
As I love thee ! " 

We came to the Palace. We mounted the stair. 
The great hall-doors wide open were. 
And all the dancers that danced in the hall 
Greeted us to the festival. 

There were ladies, as fair as fair might be. 
But not one of them all was fair as she. 
There were knights, that look'd at them lovingly, 
But not one of them all was loving as I. 

Only, each noble cavalier 
Had his throat red-lined from ear to ear; 
'Twas a collar of merit, I have heard. 
Which a Queen upon each had once conferr'd. 
And each lovely lady that oped her Vip 
Let a little mouse's tail outslip ; 
'Twas the fashion there, I know not why. 
But fashions are changing constantly. 
From the crescented naptha lamps each ray 
Stream'd into a still enchanted blaze ; — 
And forth from the deep-toned Orchestra 
That music, that music of other days ! 

My arm enlaced her winsome waist, 

And down the dance we flew : 
We flew, Ave raced : our lips embraced : 

And our breath was mingled too. 
Round, and round, to a magic sound — 
(A wizard waltz to a wizard air !) 
Round and round we whirl'd, we wound. 
In a circle light and fine : 

My cheek was fann'd by her fragrant hair, 
And her bosom beat on mine : 
And all the while, in the Avinding ways. 
That music, that music of other days, 
With its melodies divine ! 
13 



li^l rUK W AM>KKKK. 

rho jvUai'o i-look stnuils in (lu> hall. 

Ami talks, imhoanl. of tho tli>iht of (imo: 
>N'ith .'i I'ai'o too palo lor ;» tostival 

It ti^lloth .'v lalo too sail tor vhvwio. 

Vho palaoo rUnk. with ;v sihor nt>to. 

Is ihantiui); thv> doath ot' tho hour that dio 
•' What aih'th tlu>o V tor I soo tloat 
A shailo into thino ovo.s."" 

"]S\>Uiiht ailoth mo." . . . Knv murmurM slio, 
" I am taint with tho danoo, my lovo. 

(^ivo mo thino arm : tho air is warm : 
Load n\o unto tho jirovo." 

^^■o watulorM into tho oi\no. ^^'o touuvl 
A bowor by woodlnno wovon rounil. 

I'pon my bivast sho loauM hor ho;\d : 
I ilrow hor into tho bowor apart. 

" I swi>ar to thoo, my lovo." sho s;\id, 
»• Thou hast my hoart I " 

*» Ah, loavo tlty littlo hoart at ivst 1 

Wr it is so liiiht. I thmk. so li>*ht. 

Soujo witid woulil blow it away to-niglit. 
It' it woro not s;U"o in thy broast. 
Hut tho womlrous briiihtnoss on thino hair 

Piil novor soom tuoro biiiiht : 
And thy boauty novor lix^k'd uioiv t'air 

rhai\ thv boauty looks tivniiiht : 
And this dim hour. a»id this wild bowor. 

Woro mado tor our dolight : 
lloro will wo stay, utuil tho day. 

l«\ yon dark oast iiivws whito." 

'• This n\ay not bo," . . . sho answorod mo, 

" For I was latoly wod 
^Vith a diainoml ring to an C^jiiv-king, 



MYhJi-JiV. 195 

Ari'J I am IjIh wifl;," . . . nhc hh'kI. 

'' My liuhhand ]h old ; but liiw crown in of j/oKi : 

A(ifl \ii; Ijaf.li a orii«;l eye : 
And }iin arm in Uhk/, arnJ IiIh hand \h Hfron;.^, 
And liin body Ih Hcvcn <;IIm lii;/li : 

Afid ala« I I fi;ar, if h(; found uh here, 
That w(j hoth hhould hurely die. 

"All day I tak*-, my harp, and [>lay 

To him ()i\ a (.'oldftn Ktrin^: 
'J'horou;.'h th<; weary livelon;^ day 

I fjlay to him, and Hinj< : 
I Hiri;/ to hirn till hi.H white hair 

l*«;;.'inH U> eurl and f.nu'.u : 
And liiw wrinkleH fjld wlowiy unfohJ, 

And liin hrowH ^aow Hnujotfi aH Mh^en. 
Jiut at ni^'ht, when he ealln for hJH ^'olden fMjp, 

Into his win(5 I fjour 
A juice which he drinks duly \\\), 

Aiifi kIc(^[)H till the nijiht is o'(*r. 
For <>i\tt moment I wait : I look at him »trai;<ht, 

And tell him for once how much I detent him: 
I have i\<) i'r.nv IcHt he .should lutar, 

The dru^' he hath fJrain'd hatli ho oppnj.st him. 
'i'hcn, finffcr on lip, away I Hli[), 

And down the hills, till I ntach the stream : 
I call to the(! chtar, till the hoat appr-ar, 

Ami w(i Hail t^)<.';eth(;r thro' <l;i.rk and dream. 
And Hweet it is, in thin Ihle of FayH, 

To waruhrr at will thro' a j^arfJen of flowern, 
While; the tloweiH that hloom, and the lamr)8 that 
hla/.c, 

AruJ the very nightingales seem ours ! 
And sweeter it is, in the win(Jing ways 

Of the waltz, while the music falls in showers, 
While the miriHtn-l plays, and tlnj moment stays, 

And the Hweet brief rapture of love is ours! 

" Hut the ni^ht is far H[>ent; and beffjre the first 
rent 



196 THE WANDERER. 

In yon dark blue sky overhead, 
My husband will wake, and the spell will break, 

And peril is near," . . . she said. 
" For if he should wake, and not find me, 
By bower and brake, thoro' bush and tree, 

He will come to seek me here ; 
And the Palace of Fays, in one vast blaze. 

Will sink and disappear ; 
And the nightingales will die in the vales, 

And all will be changed and drear ! 
For the fays, and elves, can take care of them- 
selves : 

They will slip on their slippers, and go : 
In their little green cloaks they will hide in the 
oaks, 

And the forests and brakes, for their sweet sakes, 
Will cover and keep them, I know. 
And the knights, with their spurs, and velvets and 
furs. 

Will take olF their heads, each one, 
And to horse, and away, as fast as they may. 

Over brook, and bramble, and stone : 
And each dame of the house has a little dun mouse. 

That will whisper her when to be gone ; 
But Ave, my love, in this desolate grove, 

We shall be left alone ; 
And my husband will find us, take us and bind us : 

In his cave he will lock me up. 
And pledge me for spite in thy blood by night 

When he drains down his golden cup." 

** Thy husband, dear, is a monster, 'tis clear, 

But just now I will not tarry 
Thy choice to dispute — how on earth such a brute 

Thou hadst ever the fancy to marry. 
For wherefore, meanwhile, are we two here, 

In a fairy island under a spell, 
By night, in a magical atmosphere. 

In a lone enchanted dell. 



MYSTERY. 197 

If we are to say and do no more 

Than is said and done by the dull daylight, 
In that dry old world, where both must ignore, 

To-morrow, the dream of to-night." 

Her head droop'd on my breast, 

Fair foolish little head ! 
Her lips to mine were prest. 

Never a word was said. 

If it were but a dream of the night, 

A dream that I dream'd in sleep — 
Why, then, is my face so white. 

And this wound so red and deep ? 
But whatever it was, it all took place 

In a land where never your steps will go, 
Tho' they wander, wherever they will, thro' space ; 

In an hour you never will know, 

Tho' you should outlive the crow 
That is like to outlive your race. 

And if it were but a dream, it broke 

Too soon, albeit too late I woke. 

Waked by the smart of a sounding stroke 

Which has so confused my wits, 
That I cannot remember, and never shall. 
What was the close of that festival, 

Nor how the Palace was shatter'd to bits : 
For all that, just now, I think I know, 
Is what is the force of an Ogre's blow. 

As my head, by starts and fits. 
Aches and throbs; and, when I look round. 
All that I hear is the sickening sound 

Of the nurse's watch, and the doctor's boots, 
Instead of the magical fairy flutes ; 
And all that I see, in my love's lost place, 
Is that gin-drinking hag, Avith her nut-cracker 
face, 
By the hearth's half-burn'd out wood : 



li>S rUK \VANJ>1'KKU. 

And tlio only stroani is this stroani of Mood 
That tlows t'lHMU nio. ivii and wido : 
Yi't still I hoar. — as sharn and oloar, 
la tho horriblo horrihlo sdonoo ontsido, 

Tho olook that stands in tho onuuy hall, 
And talks to my sonl of tho tlight of timo ; 

With a faoo liko a faoo at a t'nnoral, 
Tt'llini; a talo too sad tor rhynio : 
And still I hoar, with as littlo ohoor. 

In tho yot inoro horriblo silonoo inside. 
Chanted, perohanee, by elves and lays. 
From some tar island, ont of my ua/.e, 

)Vhere a. honse luv* tallen, and some one has 
died. 
That mnsio. that mnsie of other days. 

With its minstrelsy nndeseried ! 

For Time, whieh snrviveth everythinix. 

And Memory whieh snrviveth Time : — 
'J'hese two sit by my side, and sing, 

A sonii' too sad tor rln me. 



TllK CAXriCLK (>F l.OVF. 

1 ONOK heanl an anu:el, by niiiht. in the sky. 

SinixiniX softly a song to a doep g\>Ulen Into : 
The polestar. the seven little planets, and I, 

Vo the song that he snng listenM mnte. 
For the song that he sung was so strange ami so 
sweet. 

And so tender the tones of his lute's golden 
strings. 
That the Seraphs of Heaven sat husht at his feet. 

And iolded their heads in their winixs. 



'I UK CANTirLK OF LOVK. 190 

Arifl the Hon;^ tliat lio H\in<^ hy thoso Serapli« up 

there 
Ih eall'fJ . . " Lov(;." liut tlie words. I }i;]'J liftard 

thetri els:ew}if;r(;. 

For, v/h(;n I was last in tlie nethermost Hell, 

On a roek 'mid the sulfJiunjuH sur;((;s, I heard 
A pal(i spirit sin^ to a wiM hollow shell, 

And his son^r was the same, every word, 
lint so sad was his sin;riri;;, all llcW to the sound 
Moan'd, an<], wailing, complain'd like a monster 
in pain. 
While the ficjnds lioverM near o'er tlie dismal pro- 
fijurid. 
With their blaek win;rs wei;fh'd down by the 
strain. 

Anfl th(; song t.hat was sung by the Lost Ones down 

there 
Is call'd . . " Love." But the spirit that sung was 

D(;sj)air. 

\Vh(!n the moon sets to-night, I will go down to 
oeean, 
Jiare my brow to thr; bre(;ze, and n)y heart to its 
anguish ; 
And sing till the Siren with pining emotion 

([Jndrousc.d in he.r sea-eaves) shall languish. 
And the. Sylphs of the wat<ir shall eroueh at my 
fiu't,"^ 
With their white wistful faces turn'd upward to 
ln'ar, 
And the h<A\ Salamanders shall iloat, in the heat 
Of the orean voleanoes, mori3 near. 

For the Kong I have learn'd, all that listen sliall 

move : 
liut th(;re's one will not listen, and that one I love. 



}00 THE WANDKKKK. 



THE FEDDLER. 

TiiKRE was a man, whom you might see, 
Toward nightfall, on the dusty track, 

Faring, ibotsore and wearily — 
A strong box on his back. 

A speck against the tlaring sky. 
You saw him pass the line ot' dates, 

The camel-drivers loitering by 
From Bagdadt's dusking gates. 

The merchants from Bassora stared. 
And of his wares would question him, 

But, without answer, on he tared 
Into the evening dim. 

Nor only in the east : but oft 

In northern lands of ice and snow, 

You might have seen, past field and croft, 
That figure faring slow. 

His cheek was worn ; his back bent double 
Beneath the iron box he bore ; 

And in his Avalk there- seem'd such trouble, 
You saw his feet were sore. 

You wonder'd if he ever had 
A settled home, a wite, a child : 

You marveird if a flice so sad 
At any time had smiled. 

The cheery housewife oft would iling 
A pitying alms, as on he strode. 

Where, round the hearth, a rosy ring, 
Her children's faces glow'd : 

In the dark doorway, oft the maid, 
Late-linirerino- on her lover's arm. 



THE PEDDLEK. 201 

Watcli'd thro' the twilight, half-afraid, 
That solitary form. 

The traveller hail'd him oft, ..." Good night 1 
The town is far : the road is lone : 

God speed !" . . . already out of sight. 
The wayfarer was gone. 

But, when the night was late and still, 

And the last star of all had crept 
Into his place above the hill, 

He laid him down and slept. 

His head on that strong box he laid ; 

And there, beneath the star-cold skies, 
In slumber, I have heard it said, 

There rose before his eyes 

A lovely dream, a vision fair, * 

Of some far-off, forgotten land. 
And of a girl with golden hair, 

And violets in her hand. 

He sprang to kiss her . . . "Ah I once more 
Return, beloved, and bring with thee 

The glory and delight of yore, — 
Lost evermore to me !" 

Then, ere she answer'd, o'er his back 
There fell a brisk and sudden stroke, — 

So sound and resolute a thwack 
That, with the blow, he woke .... 

There comes out of that iron box 

An ugly hag, an angry crone ; 
Her crutch about his ears she knocks : 

She leaves him not alone : 

" Thou lazy vagabond ! come, budge. 
And carry me again," . . . she says : 



202 THE WANDERER. 

Not half the journey's over . . . trudge ! " 
. . . He groans, and he obeys. 

Oft in the sea he sought to fling 
That iron box. But witches swim : 

And wave and Avind were sure to bring 
The old hag back to him ; 

Who all the more about his brains 
Belabour'd him with such hard blows, 

That the poor devil, for his pains, 
AVish'd himself dead, heaven knows ! 

Love^ is it thi/ hand in mine? . . . Behold ! 

I see the crutch uplifted high. 
The angry hag prepares to scold. 

Ohj yet we might Good bye ! 



A GHOST STORY. 

I LAY awake past midnight : 
The moon set o'er the snow : 

The very cocks, for coldness. 
Could neither sleep nor crow. 

There came to me, near morning, 
A woman pale and fair : 

She seem'd a monarch's dauijhter 
By the red gold round her hair. 

The ring upon her finger 
Was one that well I know : 

I knew her fair face also, 
For I had loved it so ! 

But I felt I saw a spirit. 
And I was sore afraid ; 



SMALL PEOPLE. 203 

For it is many and many a year 
Ago, since she was dead. 

I would have spoken to her, 

But I could not speak, for fear : 

Because it was a homeless ghost 
That walk'd beyond its sphere ; 

Till her head from her white shoulders 

She lifted up : and said . . . 
^'^ Look in ! you'll find I'm liollow. 

Pray do not be afraid ! " 



SMALL PEOPLE. 

The warm moon was up in the sky, 

And the warm summer out on the land. 

There trembled a tear from her eye : 
There trembled a tear on my hand. 

Her sweet face I could not see clear, 
For the shade was so dark in the tree : 

I only felt touched by a tear, 

And I thought that the tear was for me. 

In lier small ear I whisper'd a Avord, — 

With her sweet lips she laugh'd in my face 

And, as light thro' the leaves as a bird, 
She flitted away from the place. 

Then she told to her sister, the Snake, 
All I said ; and her cousin the Toad. 

The Snake slipp'd away to the brake. 
The Toad went to town by the road. 

The Toad told tlie Devil's-coach-horse, 
Who cock'd up his tail at the news. 



204 riii: wandkuku. 



Tho Siiako liissM the seorot, of course, 

To tlie Newt, who was ehaiii2;Ini2; her shoes. 

Tho Newt drove away to the ball, 
Ami told it the Scorpion and Asp. 

The Spider who lives in the wall 
Overheard it, and told it the Wasp. 

The Wasp told the Midue and the Gnat: 
And the Gnat told the Flea and the Nit. 

The Nit dropp'd an eai; as she sat : 

The Flea shrugg'd his shoulders, and hit. 

The Nit and the Flea are too small, 

And the Snake slips from under my toot : 

I wish T could tind 'mid them all 
A man, — to insult and to shoot ! 



METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

Stik fann'd my life out with her soft little sijjhs : 
She hnshM me to death with her tjU'e so fair ; 

I was drunk with the liuht of her wild blue eyes, 
And strangled tlumb in her long gold hair. 

So now I'm a blessed and wandering ghost, 

Tho* I cannot i[uite Ihxd out my way up to 
heaven : 

But I hover about o'er the long reedy coast. 
In the wistful light of a low red even. 

1 have borrow'd the coat of a little gray gnat : 
There's a small sharp song I have learn'd how 
to sing : 
I know a green place she is sure to be at : 

1 shall light on her neck there, and sting, and 
sting. 



TO THE QUEEN OF SERPENTS. 205 

Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, life never pleased nie ! 

I fly where I list now, and sleep at my ease. 
Buzz, buzz, buzz I the dead only are free. 

Yonder's my way now. Give place if you please. 



TO THE QUEEN OF SERPENTS. 

I TRUST that never more in this world's shade 

Thine eyes will be upon me : never more 
Thy face come back to me. For thou hast made 
My whole life sore : 

And I mi<T[ht curse thee, if thou camest aa;ain 
To mock me with the memory in thy face 
Of days I would had been not. So much pain 
llath made me base — 

Enou<ii;h to wreak the wrath of years of wrong 
Even on so frail and weak a tiling as thou ! 
Fare hence, and be forgotten. . . . Sing thy song, 
And braid thy brow, 

And be beloved, and beautiful, — and be 

In beauty baleful still ... a Serpent Queen 
To others not yet curst by kissing thee. 
As I have been. 

But come not nigh me till my end be near, 

And I have turn'd a dying face toward heaven. 
Then, if thou wilt, approach, — and have no fear. 
And be forgiven. 

Close, if thou wilt, mine eyes, and smooth my hair. 

Fond words will come upon my parting breath. 
Nor, having desolated life, forbear 
Kind offices to death. 



20G TllK NVANDKUKK, 



r>Li i:iu:aki). 

I WAS to woil yoimii; Fatima, 

As {)urt^ as A[>rirs snowdrops aro, 

In whoso lovo lay hid my crookod lilo, 
As in its shoath n»y soiniitar. 

Anionji" the lu>t pomojxi'iViiJito bouglis, 

At snnsot, lioro aUmo wo sat. 
To oall bai'k scnnothinu' from tliat hour 

I'll iiivo away my Caliphat. 

Sho bn^ki' hor sonjj; to ii'azo at mo : 
I lor lips sho loanM my lips abo\o . . . 

"■ Why art thon silont all this >vhilo, 
Loni otiuy lit'o, and ot"my love?". 

'' Sih'til 1 am, iiouiHj Fatiina, 

For silent in niif soul in tnt\ 
And tiVK/uafU' will nol lulp the want 

0/ that tchich cannot ever be." 

" Hnt whorotbro is thy spirit sad, 

My lord, my lovo, my lit'o V" . . . sho said. 
" lieeaitse th if face is irondrous ///r, 

'J 'he face o/one I k'netr, that's dead" 

" Ah ornol, ornol," oriod Fatima, 

" That I shonUl not possoss tho past ! 

What woman's lips lirst kiss'd tho lips 
\\'horo my kiss livod and lingor'il last"? 

" And sho that's doad was lovod by thoo. 
That so hor momory movos thoo yet ? . . 

Tliv t'ai'o Ljrows oold and white, as looks 
The moon o'er vender minaret ! " 



FATIMA. — CIOING IJACK AGAIN. 207 

" Ay, Fatimn ! I loved her ivell, 

With all of love's and lifers despair, 

Or else J laid not slranfjled her, 
That ni(jht, in her oivn fatal hair." 



FATIMA. 

A YEAU ago thy cheek was bri<jjht, 

As ohiander buds that break 
The (lark of yonder (ktlls by ni<^ht 

Above tlie lamp-Ht lake. 

Pah! as a snowdrop in Cashmere 

Thy faee to-ni<jjht, fair iiilant, seems. 

Ah, wretched child ! What dost thou hear 
Vyiien 1 talk in my dreams? 



OOING BACK AGAIN. 

I dream'd that I walk'd in Italy 
When the day was jj^oing down, 

By a water that (low'd (juite silently 
Thro' an old dim-lighted t(nvn : 

Till I cam(i a Palace fair to see : 
Wide open tluj windows were : 

My love at a Avindow sat, and she 
Jieckon'd me u\) the stair. 

I roam'd thro' many a corridor 
And many a chamber of state : 

I pass'd thro' many an open door, 
While the day was growijig late : 



208 THE WANDKRKR. 

Till I came to the Bridal Chamber at last, 

All dim in the darkening weather. 
The flowers at the window were talking fast, 

i\nd whispering all together. 

The place was so still that I could hear 

Every word that they said : 
They were whispering under their breath with fear, 

For somebody there was dead. 

When I came to the little rose-colour'd room, 

From the window there flow a bat. 
The window was open'd upon the gloom : 

My love at the window sat : 

She sat with her guitar on her knee, 

But she Avas not singing a note, 
For some one had drawn (ah, who could it be ?) 

A knife across her throat. 



THE CASTLE OF KING MACBETH. 

This is the castle of King Macbeth. 

And here he feasts — when the daylight wanes, 
And the moon goes softly over the heath — 

His Earls and Thanes. 

A hundred harpers with harps of gold 
Harp thorough the night high festival : 

And the sound of the music they make is roll'd 
From hall to hall. 

They drink deep healths till the rafters rork 
In the Baiupiet Hall ; and the shout is borne 

To the courts outside, where the crowing cock 
Is waked ere morn. 



DEATII-IN-LIFE. — KING LIMOS. 209 

And the castle is all in a blaze of light 

From cresset, and torch, and sconce : and there 

Each warrior dances all the night 
With his lady fair. 

They dance and sing till the raven is stirr'd 
On the wicked elm-tree outside in the gloom : 

And the rustle of silken robes is heard 
From room to room. 

But there is one room in that castle old, 
In a lonely turret where no one goes, 

And a dead man sits there, stark and cold, 
Whom no one knows. 



DEATH-IN-LIFE. 

Blest is the babe that dies within the womb. 
Blest is the corpse which lies within the tomb. 
And blest that death for which this life makes 
room. 

But dreary is the tomb where the corpse lies : 
And wretched is the womb where the child dies : 
And curst that death which steals this life's dis- 
guise. 



KING LIMOS. 

There once was a wicked, old, gray king- 
Long damn'd, as I have reason to know, 

For he was buried, (and no bad thing !) 
Hundreds of years ago. 
14 



210 TllK WANnKKKK. 

Ilii? wic'koil oUl heart had uTOwn sn rlilU'd 
That the loooh, to warm him, did uoi .<lirink 

To iiivo him o;vi'h ni<iht a gohU^t, lillM 
^^'ith a viiiiin's blood, to drink. 

*' A sphMietii" K>iiond," . . . you say, oi' ooiirso ! 

Yot thoro may bo somothiiijj; in it, too. 
Kill, in- bo kill'd . . , whii'h I'hoioo were the worse ? 

I know not. 8olvo it you. 

But even the wolf must have his prey : 
And even the gallows will have her food : 

And a king, my iVientl, will have his way, 
Tho' that way may lie thro* blood, 

!My heart is Imnsijry, and must be toil ; 

]\ly lite is empty, and must be liU'd ; 
One is not a (Ihoul, to live on the ilead : 

"NVhat then it" tVesh blood be s})iird ? 

We tbllow the way that nature leads. 

AVhat's the very lust thinii- that we learn V . . . 
To lie V our. 
Eaeh life the death of some other neeils 

To help it from hour to hour. 

From the animaleule that swallows his friends, 
Nothing- loath, in the wave as it rolls. 

To man, as Ave see him, this law ascends; 
'Tis the same in the world ol' souls. 

The law of the one is still to absorb : 

To be absorbed is the other's lot : — 
The lesser orb by the larger orb. 

The weak by the strong . . . Avhy not ? 

My want's at the worst : so why should I spare 
(^Sinee just sueh a thing my want sup})lies) 

This little girl with the silky hair. 
And tho love in her two larue eNOs? 



THE FUGITIVE. 211 



THE fugitivp:. 



TuEUE is no quiet left in life, 
Not any inoment brings me rest : 

For evermore, from shore to shore, 
J bear about a laden breast. 

I see new lands : I meet new men : 

1 learn strange tongues in novel places. 

J earmot ehase one phantom faee 

'J'hat haunts me spite of newer faces. 

Vov me the wine is pour'd by night, 

And deep enough to drown much sadness ; 

But from the cup that faee looks up, 
And mirth and music turn to madness. 

There's many a lip that's warm for me : 
Many a heart witli passion bounding : 

But ah, my breast, when closest prest. 
Creeps to a cold step near me sounding. 

To this dark pent-house of the mind 
I lure the Ijat-wing'd Sleep in vain ; 

For on his wings a dream he brings 
'J'hat deepens all the dark with pain. 

I may write books which friends will praise, 
I may win fame, I may win treasure ; 

But hope grows less with each success. 

And pain grows more with every pleasure. 

The draughts T drain to slake my thirst 
But fuel more the infernal flame. 

There tangs a sting in everything : — 
The more I chanjie, the more the same ! 



212 THE WANDERER. 

A man that flies before the pest, 

From wind to wind my course is whirl'd. 

This lly accurst stuufj Jo first, 

And drove her wild across the world ! 



THE SHORE, 

Can it be women that walk in the sea-mist, under 
the dills there V 
Where, 'neath a briny bow, creaming, advances 
the lip 
Of the foam, and out from the sand-chok'd an- 
chors, on to the skitfs there, 
The long ropes swing thro' the surge, as it tum- 
bles; and glitter, and drip. 

All the place in a lurid, glimmering, emerald 
glory, 
Glares like a Titan world come back under 
heaven again : 
Yonder, up there, are the steeps of the sea-kings, 
famous in story ; 
But who are they on the beach ? They are 
neither women, nor men. 

Who knows, are they the land's, or the water's, 
living creatures ? 
Born of the boiling sea ? nurst in the seething 
storms ? 
With their woman's hair dishevell'd over their 
stern male features. 
Striding, bare to the knee ; magnified maritime 
tbrms ! 

They may be the mothers and wives, they may be 
the sisters and dauirhters 



TIIK SHORE. 213 

Of men on the dark mid-seas, alone in those 
black-coil'd hulls, 
That toil 'neath yon white cloud, whence the moon 
will rise o'er the waters 
To-nif;ht, with her face on fire, if the wind in 
the evening lulls. 

But they may be merely visions, such as only 
sick men witness, 
(Sittin^ij as I sit here, fiU'd with a wild regret) 
Framed from the sea's misshapen spume with a 
horrible fitness 
To the winds in which they walk, and the surges 
by which they are wet : — 

Salamanders, sea-wolves, witches, warlocks; marine 
monsters. 
Which the dying seaman beholds, when the rats 
are swimming away. 
And an Indian wind 'gins hiss from an unknown 
isle, and alone stirs 
The broken cloud which burns on the verge of 
the dead, red day. 

I know not. All in my mind is confused ; nor can 
I dissever 
The mould of the visible world from the shape 
of my thoughts in me. 
The Inward and Outward are fused : and, thro' 
them, murmur forever 
The sorrow whose sound is the wind, and the 
roar of the limitless sea. 



91i 'niK \v.\M>KKi:i{. 



TllK N' OK Til Sr.A. 

r»v {\w m";\v sand hills, o'cv tho I'oM st'a-sliov<> ; 

wluM'o, iliimMv jH*iM"n\i»", 
Pass tho palo-{<ailM ships, sri)rMlnll\ . siK-ndy ; whool- 

iuii', ti\u\ vooriuti' 
Swin out oC sliiht auain ; \\\n\v (ho Nviml soari'lios 

>Yhat it linds iit^vor. 
(>\"r tho saml-roai'hos, hays, billows. l>lo\vi\ boaohos. 

lumu»U'ss t'oi'ON or ! 
Anil, in a vision oi' iho l»aro hoaNvMi soon and 

S()on hist aj;ain, 
O>or (ho folliuii (oa»n, ou( in (ho »niil soas. roniul 

bv tho ooas( a<iaiM, 
llovors (ho soa-«inll. poisiMJ in tho wlmi al>o\o, o'or 

(ho Moak sm'm\s, 
in (ho m-i'on hriuy liloani, briotly rovoalM ami 

^ono ; . . (hu>(. as oniorot's 
(>ut of (ho (nn\ult ot* stnui^ biain whoro nuMnorv 

labours, auvl lVot('ully 
Moans all tho niiiht-loi»>j[,— j\ wild wiiv^od \\o\h\ 

soon tadiuii ivurot fully. 
Uoio walk tho \i^s( (lods i>' dark Soandinavia, 

niornino- at\d ovoti ; 
l\\in( palo ilivini(ios. roabnloss anil sorrowt'nl. oxil'd 

(Von\ Uoavon ; 
r>ur(hon'd Nvith niouiorios ot' old (luH\iiiM\ios ; oaoh 

ruinM nu>nari'hy 
luvuninji" juna/od by soas oblivivMJs t>('ani'iont toalty. 
Novor, a>iain at (ho tablos ot' Ovlin. in thoir lost 

najujuot Hall, 
Shall thoy \'\ou\ iiv>Klon onps drink, hoariuii' ii\>ldou 

harps, ha>*ini\ir hii;h tostival, 
Novor prajso bri^lK-hairM Kivya, in VinuoU', tor 

\wv lost lovolinoss I 
Novor, with .Kiiir. sail ixnuul oool moonlit islos v^t' 

s^ivon wiUlornos!! ! 



TIIK NOIITII HKA. '21.0 



wlicrj (i;iy \h wafiiri<f, 
Many a ho|)<!l(!HH vo'xut iumv l.lif; ni;.'liL i'h licanl 

roMly rouiplainin;/, 
lIcH!, ill IIk*. ».'limiii<!iiii«.' daikfiOHs, vvlicii wiiidH arc 

(ln)f)j)'(J, and not a H<'-aman Hin;.'H 
I"'roiii <;af)(! or (onilarifJ, fjauHi*, and [>aHH Hil«;nlly, 

(onus of flisriovviM'd kiii^s, 
Willi Hwciqjiii;/, (loal.iii;.^ fold.s of (Jim firariiKniJH ; 

waiid(!riii^ in wonder 
or llicif own aHpcrf,; lroo[)in;^ lowardn nii<Jni;.djt ; 

lc,(;lin;.' ("or lliiiiKlcr. 
Ilcrr^, in tlic aCi.eriioon ; wliilr;, in her f'allicr's boat, 

heavily laden, 
Mftiidiii^'^ (,1m; torn ruitH, nUiff^ n\> (,he, Ijir-ak hay (In; 

l''ihlie,r-iVIaid(!n, 
I (,oo, (orlornly wanderiii;^, wanderin*^, He*;, willi 

(,he, rnind'H <'-y(;, 
ShadowH h(!Hide me, . . . (hea,rin;^ (Ik; wave moan, 

heariii^ th<5 wind Hiirli). . 
ShadowH, aiui iiiia;^(;» bal<;('ully heanliCul, oi' days 

def)ar(.<!d : 
SouihJm oC ('ain(- CootHteps, ^leaiiiH oC [laie, (oreheads, 

make me Had-hearle.d ; 
Sad for (he, IohI,, irrel.iii'.vahle HW(;e.(,nesH of (ormcr 

liourH ; 
Sad vvilh delirious, deHoh'Uc, odonrrt, from faded 

(lowerH ; 
Sad (or (,li(! heau(if"ul ;ioid hair, (,}ie (;x(|ijl.si(,e, (;x- 

• luiwite. f»ra('<!H 
Of a diviiu; fa(M',, ho[)e,lessly unlik(; all o(,her faecH ! 

O'er (he ;^ray Kaiid-hills, (where I si(, snih^nly, full 

of Mack (aneie.s,) 
Nipl, hy (,h(; Hea-vvind, (lr(;iieh'd hy (,he Hea-nait, 

li((.l(! wild j)ansi(!H 
I''lower, and freshly treiiihle, and (winkle; .sw(;et 

hisferhoods, 
JiOiH!, and how lovely, wi(,li (heir ("rail ^reen Kterns, 

and dark puiple horjtjs ! 



216 THE WANDERER. 

Here, even here in the midst of monotonous, fixt 

desolation, 
Nature has touches of tenderness, beauties of young 

variation ; 
Where, O my heart, in thy ruin'd, and desolate, 

desolate places, 
Springs there a flow'ret, or gleams there the green 

of a single oiisis ? 
Hidden, it may be perchance, and I know it not . . . 

hidden yet inviolate. 
Pushes the germ of an unconscious rapture in me, 

like the violet 
Which, on the bosom of March, the snows cover 

and keep till the coming 
Of April, the first bee sliall find, when he wanders, 

and welcome it humming. 

Teach me, thou North where the winds lie in am- 
bush ; the rains, and foul weather 

Are stored in the house of the storms ; and the 
snow-flakes are garner'd together ; 

Where man's stern, dominate, sovereign intelli- 
gence holds in allegiance 

Whatever blue Sirius beholds on this Earth-ball — 
all seas, and all regions ; 

The iron in the hills' heart ; the spirit in the load- 
stone ; the ice in the poles ; 

All powers, all dominions ; ships ; merchandise ; 
armaments; beasts ; human souls ; . . . 

Teach me thy secrets : teach to refrain, to restrain, 
to be still ; 

Teach me unspoken, steadfast endurance ; — the 
silence of Will ! 



A NIGHT IN THE FISHERMAN'S HUT. 217 



A NIGHT IN THE FISHERMAN'S HUT. 

PART I. 
THE FISHERMAN'S DAUGHTER. 

If the wind liad been blowing the Devil this way 
The midnight could scarcely have grown more 
unholy, 
Or the sea have found secrets more wicked to say 
To the toothless old crags it is hiding there 
wholly. 

I love well the darkness. I love well the sound 
Of the thunder-drift, howling this way over 
ocean. 

For 'tis tho' as in nature my spirit had found 
A trouble akin to its own fierce emotion. 

The hoarse night may howl herself silent for me ! 

When the silence comes, then comes the howling 
within. 
I am drench'd to my knees in the surf of the sea, 

And wet with the salt bitter rain to the skin. 

Let it thunder and lighten ! this world's ruin'd 
angel 

Is but fool'd by desire like the frailest of men ; 
Both seek in hysterics life's awful evangel. 

Then both settle down to life's silence again. 

Well I know the wild spirits of water and air. 
When the lean morrow turns up its cynical gray, 

Will, baffled, revert with familiar despair 

To their old listless work, in their old helpless 
way. 



218 Tin: >vandf.ukk. 

Yomloi's the light in tho Kishonnan's hut : 

Hut tho oKl wolt" hiuvsolt" is. I kuow, otV at soi\ ; 

Ami 1 soo thro" tho ohinks, tho' tho shuttoi*s bo shut, 
lU tho tirolliiht that sou\o ono is watohing tor mo. 

Throo yoars ago, on this vorv samo night, 

I walkM in a ballroom ot" portumo ami splon- 
tlour 
^Vith a {loarl-botlook'd lady bolow tho lamii-li^ht : — 
^\nv I walk with tho wild wiml, whoso broath is 
more tomlor. 

Hark I tho horsos ot' oooan that oi-ouoh at n\y toot, 

riiovaro moaning in impotont pain on tho boaoh! 

Lo I tho storm-light, that swathos in its blno wind- 

ingshoot 

That lono dosort ot' skv, whoro tho stars aro 

dead, oaoh I 

Holloa, thoro ! opon. yon littlo wild girl I 

Hush. . . . 'lis hor sott littlo foot oVr tho lloor. 

Stay not to tio up a single dark onrl, 

lint ipuok with tho oandlo. and opon tho door. 

Ono kiss "? . . . thoro's twonty I . . . but (irst, take my 
ooat there, 
Salt as a sea-sponge, and dripping all thro*. 
Tho old wolt*. your t'athor. is out in the boat there. 
Hark to the thunder 1 . . . we're safe, — I ami 
you. 

Put on tho kettle. And now I'or the oask 
Oi'that t'amous old rum of your t'ather's, the king 

\Vould have elaw'd on our t'rontier. There, fill 
me tho tlask. 
Ah, what a quiok^ little, noat-hamlod thing I 

There's my pipe. StutV it with blaok negro-head. 
Soon 1 shall be in the eloud-laud ol' ulorv. 



A NIGHT rX TIIK FISriKUMAN'S HUT. 219 

Faitli, 'tis bettor with you, dear, than 'fore the 
irjast-hcad, 
With such Mghts at the windows of niglit's upper 
story ! 

Next, over the round open hole in the shutter 
You may pin up your sliawl, . . . lest a mermaid 
shouhJ peep. 

Come, now, the ketthi's be;^innin;^ to splutter, 
And the cat reconiposes herself into sleep. 

Poor little naked feet, . . , put them up there . . . 

Little white foam ilakes ! and now the soft head, 
Here, on my shoulder ; while all the dark hair 

Falls round us like seaweed. What matter the 

If skicp will visit it, if kisses feel there 

Swe(;t as they feel under curtains of silk? 

So, shut your eyes, while the firelight will steal 
there 
O'er the black bearskin, the arm white as milk ! 

Meanwliile I'll tell to you all I remember 
Of the old legend, the northern romance 

I heard of in Sweden, that snowy D(;cember 
I {(ass'd there, about the wild Lord Uosencrantz. 

'J'hen, when you're tired, take the cards from the 
(Mjjjboard, 
Thumb'd ov(!r by every old thief in our crew, 
And rU tell you your fortune, you little Dame 
Hubbard ; 
My own has been squandcjr'd on witches like you. 

Knave, King, and Queen, all the villainous pack of 
'em, 
1 know what they're worth in the game, and 
have found 



220 TllK AVANUKKKK. 

Upon all the tnuup-oards the small mark at. tlio 
baik of 'om, 
The Devil's nail mark, who still cheats us all 
nnnul. 



TAUr II. 

TlIK LKiniM^ OK l.OKO KOSKNOK.VNT/. 

TllK lamps in the eastle hall burn bright. 

Ami the musie souuils, and the daneers dani e. 

Ami lovelv the \oun<i- Queen h>oks to-night, 
liut pale is J^ord Uoseuerantz. 

TiOrd Kosenerant/ is always pale, 

l>ut never uu>re deailly pale than now . . . 

Oh, there is a whisper, — an aneient tale, — 
A rumour, . . . but who should know ? 

lie has steppM to the dais. He has taken her 
hand. 

And she ^ives it him with a tender glanee. 
And the hautboys sound, anil the daneei^ stand. 

And envy Lord Kosenerant/. 

That jewellM hand to his lips he ]u-est ; 

And lightly he leails her towards the daneo : 
And the blush on the youno- Queen's eheek eonfest 

Her love tor Lord Kosenerant/. 

The mcX)n at the mnllion'd window sluuie ; 

There a t'aee and a hand in the moouliiiht alanee ; 
l>ut that taee and that hand were seen ot'none, 

Save only Lord Kosenerantz. 

A league aloof in the t'orest-land 

There's a dead blaek jiool, where a man by 
chance 



A NIGHT IN THE FISIIKRMAN'S HUT. 221 

. . . . Afjain, again, that beckoning hand ! 
And it beckons Lord llosencrantz. 

While the young Queen turn'd to wliisper him, 
Lord llosencrantz from the hall was gone ; 

And the liautlKjys ceased, and the lamps grew dim ; 
And the castle clock struck One ! 



It is a bleak December night, 

And the snow on the highway gleams by fits : 
But the fire on the cottage-hearth burns bright, 

Where the little maiden sits. 

Iler spinning-wheel she has laid aside ; 

And her blue eyes soft in the firelight glance; 
As slie l(;ans with love, and she leans with pride, 

On the breast of Lord Kosencrantz. 

JSIother's asleep, up-stairs in bed : 

And the black cat, she looks wondrous wise 
As she licks her paws in the firelight red, 

And glares with her two green eyes : 

And the little maiden is half afraid. 

And closely she clings to Lord llosencrantz ; 

For she has been reading, that little maid. 
All day, in an old romance, 

A legend wild of a wicked pool 

A league aloof in the forest-land. 
And a ci-ime done there, and a sinful soul. 

And an awful face and hand. 

" Our little cottage is bleak and drear," 
Says the little maid to Lord llosencrantz ; 

" And this is the loneliest time of the year, 
And oft, when the wind, by chance, 



222 TlIK WANDKUKH. 

" The ivy beats on the window-pane, 

T wake to the sound in the pjnsty nifjhts ; 

Atid often, outside, In the di'it't and rain, 
There seem to ])ass strange sights. 

" And oil, it is dreary hero alone ! 

AN'hen mother's asK'ep, in bed, up-stairs, 
And the bhiek eat, there, to the forest is gone, 

Look at her, how she gUires ! " 

" Thou littU^ niaidi'u, my heart's own bliss, 
Have thou no fear, for I love thee well ; 

And sweetest it is upon nights like this. 
When the wind, like the blast of hell, 

" Roars up and down in the chimneys old, 
And the wolf howls over the distant snow. 

To kiss away both the night ami the cold 
With such kisses as we kiss now." 

" Ah ! more than life 1 love thee, dear ! " 
Says the little maiden with eyes so blue ; 

" And, when thou art near, I have no fear. 
Whatever the night may do. 

" But oh, it is dreary when thou art away ! 

And in bed all night 1 pray i'or thee : 
Now tell me, thou dearest heart, and say. 

Dost thou ever i)ray tor me ? " 

" Thou little maiden, I thaidc thee much, 

And well I would thou shouldst pray lor me; 

Ibit I am a sinful man, and such 
As ill should pray li)r thee." 

Hist ! . . . was it a iace at the window past ? 

())• was it the ivy leaf, by chance, 
Tapping the pane in the litful blast, 

That startled Lord Rosenerantz ? 



A NIGHT IN THE FISHERMAN'S HUT. 223 

The little maid, she has seen it plain, 

For she shriek'd, and down she fell in a swoon : 
Mutely it came, and went again, 

In the liffht of the winter moon. 



The young Queen, — oh ! but her face was sweet I- 
IShe died on the night that she was wed : 

And they laid her out in her windingsheet, 
Stark on her marriage-bed. 

The little maiden, she went mad; 

But her soft blue eyes still smiled the same, 
With ever that wistful smile they had : 

Her mother, she died of shame. 

The black cat lived from house to house, • 
And every night to the forest hied ; 

And she kill'd many a rat and mouee 
Beibre the day she died. 

And do you wish that I should declare 
What was the end of Lord Rosencrantz ? 

Ah ! look in my heart, you will find it there, 
The end of the old romance ! 



PART III. 

DAYBREAK. 

Yes, you have guess'd it. The wild Rosencrantz, 
It is I, dear, the wicked one ; who but I, maiden ? 

My life is a tatter'd and worn-out romance. 

And my heart with the curse of the Past hath 
been laden : 

For still, where I wander or linger, forever 

Comes a skeleton hand that is beckoning for me; 



224 TiiK >vani>i:kkk. 

And still, (lojxging my footsteps, life's loii<r Nevei"- 
never 
Pursues me, wherever mv footste])s may be : 

The star of my eourse bath been long ago set, dear ; 

And the wind is my piK)t, wherever he blows : 
He eannot blow from me what I would forget, dear, 

Nor blow to me that whieh 1 seek lor, — re})ose. 

AN'hat ! if 1 were the Devil himself, would you cling 

to me. 

Hear my ill hununirs, and share my wild nights ? 

Crt)ueh by nu\ fear me not, stay by me, sing to me, 

AVhile the dark haunts us with sounds and with 

sights ? 

Follow me far away, pine not, but smile to me, 
Never ask ipiestions, and always be gay V 

Still the dear eyes meekly turned all the while to me, 
Watehful the night thro', and patient the day V 

What ! if this hand, that now strays thro' your 
tresses. 
Three years ago luul been dabbled in gore ? 
What! if this lip, that your lip now earesses, 

A corpse hail bei'u pressing but three vears be- 
tbre ? 

AVell then, behold ! . . . 'tis the gray light of morn- 
ing 
That breaks o'er the desolate waters . . . and 
hark ! 
'Tis the tirst signal shot from my boat gives me 
warning : 
The dark moves away : and I follow the dark. 

On with vour hat anil vour eloak ! You are mine, 
eliild. 
Mine and the fiend's that pursues me, henceforth ! 



A NIGHT IN THE FISHERMAN'S HUT. 225 

We must be far, ere day breaks, o'er the brine, 
child : 
It may be south I go, it may be north. 

What ! really fetching your hat and your cloak, 
dear V 

Sweet little fool. Kiss me quick now, and laugh ! 
All I have said to you was but a joke, dear : 

Half was in folly, in wantonness half. 



PART IV. 
BREAKFAST. 

Ay, maiden : the whole of my story to you 
Was but a deception, a silly romance : 

From the first to the last word, no word of it true; 
And my name's Owen Meredith, not Rosen- 
crantz. 

I never was loved by a Queen, I declare : 
And no little maiden for me has gone mad : 

I never committed a murder, I swear ; 

And I probably should have been hang'd if I had. 

I never have sold to the Devil my soul ; 

And but small is the price he would give me, I 
know : 
I live much as other folks live on the whole : 

And the worst thing in me's my digestion . . . 
heigh ho ! 

Let us leave to the night-wind the thoughts which 

he brings, 

And leave to the darkness the powers of the dark ; 

For my hopes o'er the sea lightly flit, like the wings 

Of the curlews that hover and poise round my 

bark. 

15 



220 rilK WVNOKKIK. 

l.oavo tho >Yind citul tho wator to luuttor tOiivthor 

rhoir >Yoii\l inotaphysioal >irioU as of old. 
For dav's Inisiiiosj! begins, and tho olork ot' tho 
woathor 
To tho powoi'S ot' tho air doth his pnrposo nutolih 

Uo vou smv tha^o divad Titatis. whatovor thoy be, 
Ihat sport with this ball in tho givat courts at' 
Tinio. 

To play praotioal ji^kos upoi\ you. doar. and mo, 
\\ ill novor dosist t'lxnii a sj^ort so sublituo. 

Tho old (>ligjiivhy ot* (iivooo. now abolish'd, 

Woiv iillo aristocrats, tond of tho arts. 
Init tho* thus rotinod. all thoir tastos woiv so 
polishM. 
Thoy WOIV turbulent, dissolute go<ls. without 
hearts. 

They nejrloeted their ■ business, thoy gave tluMu- 
selv OS aii-s. 
Kead the poets in (uvek. sipp'd their wine, tiH^*!? 
their ivst. 
Never tivubling their beautit'ul heads with atVairs, 
And as tor tlieir morals, the least Si\id, the Ivst. 

The scandal givw greater and givater : and then 

.\n appeal to the people wa^s ti^rmally made. 
The old gvHls wetv displaced by the sutVn\ge of 
men. 
And a popular uovenuuent tonu'd in their 
s^wd. 

But these aiv high matters of state— 1 and you 
May lx> thankt'ul. meanwhile, we have something 
to eat. 
And nothing, just now, n\oiv important to do. 
Than to sit down at once, and say grace Ivtbiv 
meat. 



A l)llKA\f. 227 

You may boil nut Homc eoff'oo, an ^pr^, if it*H handy; 

'J |j«', h(';i'h rollin*^ mountairiH ju«t now. J «hall 
waif, 
lor KiM;^ N(;[^f uri<;'H rnoHiHui/ma tf/fupora Jhndi.^ 
Who will prewjntly lift up his curly whilri paf.o, 

Jiid KurijH and XotuH to mind thcirown buninoHH, 
And mak<i nu; a Hp<MM;h in H<;xam<'t(trs hlow; 

Wliilf; 1, by thft honour r;lat.<;d U> dizziness, 

Shall yield hiju my ofl'eringH, and make him my 
bow. 



A OltKAM. 

1 iiAi> aoui(;tdream last nij^ht: 
\''<)r I <lr<;am'd that I waM d<;ad ; 

VV'ra[jt around in my f.'rave-f;lotheH white, 
With my j/ravehtone at my head. 

J lay in a land I have not se<;n, 

In a place 1 do not know, 
And the \irixm was deathly deathly green 

Which ovf^r my grave did grow. 

'i'he place was as still as still could be, 

With a few stiirs in the sky, 
And an ocean whose waves 1 could not see, 

Tho' J heard them moan hard by. 

There was a birr] in a branch of Vew, 

liuilding a little nest. 
'J'he ?-:fars looked far and \(-ry few, 

And 1 lay all at rest. 

There came a footstep thro' the grass. 
And a f(;elin'' thro' the mould : 



328 I'UK \VVNOKKKK. 

Alul a \voii\>in palo ilul o\or mo pass, 
^^'itl^ hair liko snaki^s of" uo^l' 

Sho ivad my iiai\H> n\^on my iiravo : 
Slu< ivavl my namo with a smih*. 

A NviKl moau oamo fivm a NvamliM-ing >vavo, 
Hut tho slat's smilM all tho \vhih\ 

Tho stai*s smilM sot't. That woman paU^ 

C>vor my uravo d'\d movo. 
Siuiiin^" all to horsolt' a tale 

0[' o\w that ilioil tor lovo. 

Thoro i'an\o a sparrow-hawk to tho troo. 



noro i'an\o a sparrow-n; 
Tho littlo bint to slav ; 



Thoiv oamo a sliip t'rvMii ovor tho soa. 
To lako that wou\au an ay. 

Tho littlo bii\l 1 wishM to savo. 
To t'mish his nost sv» swoot : 

l>ut sv> iloop 1 lay within my jiravo 
That I oonKl not movo my toot. 

That woman pale I wishM to koop 
To finish tho talo 1 hoard : 

l>ut within my «;raYO I lay so iloop 
That I oouUl not speak a >Yoi\i. 



Kl\C^ SOl.OMt^N. 

IviNi; Solomon stvXHl, in his oivwn ot' g\>Ul, 
Hot ween the pillai*:*, bo tore the altar 

In the House ot' the l.oixi. Ami tho l\.in<i was oKl, 
Anil his stivuiith boiian to falter. 

So that he leauM on his elK^ny statV, 

SealM with the seal of the reutegraph. 



KING 80L0M0N. 229 

All of the f^oldcn i'uttU-A work, 

Without and within ko rich and rare, 

As }ii;^}i as the n(;st of the buihJing stork, 
'J'hoso pillars of cedar were: — 

Wrou;.dit up to tlie brazen chapiters 

Of the Sidonian artificers. 



Thf; (;arven cedarn beams IjcIow, 
Jn his pur[>le rolic, with his signet ring, 

And his beard as white as snow, 
And his face to the Oracle, where the hymn 
JJies un<Jer th(; wing of the cherubim. 

The wings fold over the Oracle, 

And cover the lieart and eyes of Ood : 

TIkj Spouse with })omegranate, lily, and bell. 
Is glorious in lier abode; 

For with gold of Of>hir, and scent of myrrh, 

And purple of 'i yre, The King cloth'd her. 

IJy the soul of each slumbrous instrument 
JJrawn soft thro' the musical misty air, 

The stream of the folk that came and went. 
For worship, and praise, and prayer, 

Flow'd to and fro, and up and down, 

And round The King in his golden crown. 

And it came to pass, as The King stood there, 
And look'd on the house he had built, with 
pride, 
That the Hand of The Lord came unaware, 

And touch'd him ; so that he died. 
In his purple robe, with his signet ring. 
And the crown wherewith they had crown'd hira 
king. 

And the stream of the folk that came and went 
To worship the Lord with prayer and praise, 



*2:U> rUK WAMM'UIU. 

A\\mi( st>l'(lv miM", in womU'rnuMit, 

Vov riu' Kinir sttHxl ihoro jihvays ; 
And it ^^•;ls solomn and stratJiiV to boljoUl 
That iKmiI kin^' crowuM with a orowii ot* lioUL 

Vov ho loauM on his i-hony statV upright ; 

And over his shonlilors tho pnrplo robo ; 
Anil his hair, and his board, wo ro both snow-whito ; 

Anil tho toar of him lillM tho olobo ; 
So that i»ono darod tmu'li him, thou<:h ho was doad, 
llo lookM so royal about tho hoad. 

And tho n\oons woro ohaniiod : and tho yoars roll'd 
on : 

And tho now kinij roign'd in tho old kinji's stoail: 
Aiiil mou woro marriod and buriod anon : 

l>ut Tho King stood, stark and doad ; 
Loaning njnight on his obony statl"; 
Trosorvi'd by tho sign ot* tho rontogra[ih. 

\t\il tho stroan\ ot" lito, as it wont and oamo, 

ICvor tor worship and praise and prayor. 
Was awod by tlu> taoo, and tho toar, and tho tamo 

()t" tho doail king standing thoro ; 
I'or his hair was st> w hiti\ and Ins oyos so oold. 
That thoy lot\ him alono with his orown ot* gxild. 

So Kiuii" Solomon st^nnl up, doad. in tho llouso 
Of Tho Lord, hold thoro by tho rontograi)h, 

I'ntil out tVoni a pillar thoro ran a rod n\ouso, 
And gnawM thro* his obony statV: 

Thou, tlat on his t'aoo, Tho King foil down : 

And thoy piok'd t'rom tho dust a goldon orown.* 



* Mv kiiowloa.cx' of tho K;»\*)>inii"!vl losroml whioh <!Ujr?:^<sttHl this 
IVviu is OHO iiuionsj tho mutiv dobt--^ 1 owo to iu> tVioiui Uobort 
nivwuiusr, I hoiH< thoso linos inav iviuiiul him of liours whioh 
his siH'iotv rv'uiloiwl piv»io\is luul ilotiuhtful to ivio, aiul whioli !U\» 
aiiiong tlie imvst plt»asiint momovios of ui> Ufo. 



COKDELIA. 231 



CORDELIA. 



Tiio' thou never liast soiir^ht to divine it, 
Tlio' to know it thou hast not a eare, 
Yet niy lieart can no longer confine it, 
U'lio' n»y lip may be blaneh'd to d(;clare 
'I'liat I love thee, revere thee, adore thee, 

my dream, my desire, my desj)air ! 

Tho' in life it may never be ^'iven 
'JV) my lieart to nqjose upon thine ; 
'J'ho' nctither on earth, nor in h(!aven. 
May the f)liss 1 have dn^am'd of be mine ; 
Yet thou canst not forbid me, in distance. 
And silence, and lon<r lonely years. 
To love th(!e, <lespite thy resistance, 
And bless thee, despite of my tears. 

Ah me, could'.st thou love me ! , . . Believe me, 

How I han<r on tlie tones of thy voice ; 

How the least sijrh thou si<^hest can grieve me, 

The least smile thou smilest rejoice : 

In thy face, how I watch every shade there ; 

In thine eyes, how I learn every look ; 

How the least si^^n thy sj)irit hath made there 

My heart reads, and writes in its book ! 

And each day of my life my love shapes me 
From the mien that thou wearest, l>(;loved. 
Thou hast not a grace that escapes me. 
Nor a nunement that leaves m(} unmoved. 

1 live but to see the(;, to hear thee ; 

I count but th(i liours where thou art ; 
1 ask — only ask — to be near thee. 
Albeit 80 far from thy heart. 



232 THE WANDERER. 

In my life's lonely galleries never 
AVill be silenced thy lightest footfall : 
For it lingers, and echoes, forever 
Unto Memory mourning o'er all. 
All thy fair little footsteps are bright 
O'er the dark troubled spirit in me, 
As the tracks of some sweet water-sprite 
O'er the heaving and desolate sea. 
And, tho' cold and unkind be thine eyes, 
Yet, unchill'd their unkindness below. 
In my heart all its love for thee lies, 
Like a violet cover'd by snow. 

Little child ! . . . were it mine to watch o'er thee, 
To guide, and to guard, and to soothe ; 
To shape the long pathway before thee, 
And all that was rugged to smooth ; 
To kneel at one bedside by night, 
And mingle our souls in one prayer ; 
And, awak'd by the same morning-light, 
The same daily duties to share ; 

Until Age with his silver dimm'd slowly 
Those dear golden tresses of thine ; 
And Memory render'd thrice holy 
The love in this poor heart of mine ; 

Ah, never . . . (recalling together. 

By one hearth, in our life's winter time, 

Our youth, with its lost summer- weather, 

And our love, in its first golden prime,) 

Should those loved lips have cause to record 

One word of unkindness from me. 

Or my heart cease to bless the least word 

Of kindness once spoken by thee ! 

But, whatever my path, and whatever 
The future may fashion for thine, 
Thy life, O believe me, can never, 



" YE SEEK JESUS OF NAZARETH," ETC. 233 

My belov'd, be indifferent to mine. 

When far from the sight of thy beauty, 

Pursuing, unaided, alone. 

The path of man's difficult duty 

In the land where my lot may be thrown ; 

When my steps move no more in the place 

Where thou art : and the brief days of yore 

Are forgotten : and even my face 

In thy life is remember'd no more ; 

Yet in my life will live thy least feature ; 

I shall mourn the lost light of thine eyes ; 

And on earth there will yet be one nature 

That must vearn after thine till it dies. 



"YE SEEK JESUS OF NAZARETH WHICH 
WAS CRUCIFIED : HE IS RISEN : HE 
IS NOT HERE." MAPac xvi. 6. 

If Jesus came to earth again, 

And walk'd, and talk'd, in field and street, 
Who would not lay his human pain 

Low at those heavenly feet ? 

And leave the loom, and leave the lute. 
And leave the volume on the shelf, 

To follow Him, unquestioning, mute, 
If 'twere the Lord himself? 

How many a brow with care o'er worn, 
How many a heart with grief o'erladen. 

How many a youth with love forlorn. 
How many a mourning maiden. 

Would leave the baffling earthly prize 
Which fails the earthly, weak endeavour, 

To gaze into those holy eyes. 
And drink content forever ! 



2JM TIIK WANOKKKK. 

'IMio lUtM'tal \\o\H\ I ask Avilli trars 

Ot" IKmvou, to soothe this mortal pain, — 

Tho (lri>am ot'all my ihn'kt'uM yoars, — 
I should not i-linii' to thiMi. 

Thit initio that prompts tho hiltor Jost — 
(Sharj) styptio of a bloi'tlinu; heart !) 

AVoiihl tail, ami humbly loavo coiilost 
The sill that broii<>;ht tho smart, 

It" I miiiht crtnu'h within tho t'oitl 

(.)t"tliat \vhiti> roho (a wouiulod binl) 

Tho I'avo that Mary saw bohoKl, 
Ami lu'ar tho words jiiu' hoai'd. 

1 would not ask om» word of all 

That m>w my nature yiwrns to know ; — 
The leiivnd of the aneient Fall ; 

The sonree ol' human wt>e : 

"What hopes in other worKls niay hide ; 

What iiriefs yet unexplored in this ; 
How tares the sj>irit within the wide 

Waste traet of that abyss 

Whieh seares the heart (sinee all we know 
Of life is only I'onseious sorrow) 

Lest novel life be novel woe 

In death's undawn'd to-morrow ; 

1 would not ask iMie word oi' this 
If 1 miiiht only hide my head, 

Oi\ that beloved breast, and kiss 
The wountls wiiore desus bled. 

And I, where'er lie went, would i:;o. 

Nor ipiestiou where the path might lead, 

Enouiih to know that, here below, 
I walk'd with ({od indeed ! 



" YE SKIOK JKHUH OF N AZAICKTIf ," KTC. 235 

I lis sheep alon^ tlio cool, the shade, 

liy the still watercourse He leads, 
His lartihs uj)Oii His breast are laid, 

His hungry ones He le(;ds. 

Safe in His bosom I shouhi li(5, 

Hearing, where'er His steps nriight Ik;, 

Calm waters, murmuring, murmuring by, 
To meet the mighty sea. 

If" this be tlius, O Lord of mine, 

In absence is Thy love foi-got V 
And must I, where I walk, rej)ine 

JJettause I see th(;e not V 

If this be thus, if this be thus. 

And our poor ])rayers yet reacli Thee, Lord, 
Since we are wciak, once more to us 

lieveal the IJving Word! 

Yet is my heart, indeed, so W(;ak 
My course alorie 1 dare not trace V 

Alas ! 1 know my heart must break 
Before I see Thy face. 

I lov(!d, with all my human soul, 

A human creature, here below. 
And, tho' thou bad'st thy sea to roll 

Forever 'twixt us two, 

And tho' her form I may not see 

Thro' all my long and lonely life, 
And tho' she never now may be 

My helpmate and my wife;, 

Yet in my dreams her dear eyes shine, 

Yet in my heart her face i bear. 
And yet each holiest thought of mine 

1 seem with her to share. 



l>ut, Lonl, Thy t)u'o I homm' saw, 
Mor ovor hoard Thy liinnan voii'o : 

My lito. bonoatli an Iron law. 
Moves on withont my ohoico. 

No nuMnory ot' a happior tinio, 

Whon in Thino aims, porohanco, 1 slept. 
In some lost ante-natal elime, 

]\ly mortal trame hath kept : 

Ami all is dark — betoro — behind. 

I cannot reaeh Thee, where Tlu>u art, 
I eannot brino: Thee to my mind, 

Nor elasp Thee to my heart. 

And this is wliy, by niuht and day. 
Still with so many an nnseen tear. 

These lonely lips have learnM to pray 
That (lod would spare me liere, 

AVhile } et my do\ibt1"ul eonrse I go 
Along the vale ot' mortal years. 

By Lite's dull stream, that will not tlow 
As fast as llow n\y tears. 

One human hand, my hand to take : 
One human heart, my own to raise: 

One loving human voiee. to break 
The silence of my days. 

Saviour, if this wiUl prayer be wrong. 
Ami what 1 seek 1 may not tind. 

Oh. make more hard, and stern, and strong, 
The framework of my mind I 

Or, nearer to me, in the dark 

Of life's loAv hours, one moment stand. 
Ami give me keener eyes to mark 

The moviuii of Thv hand. 



TO COIiDKLIA. 237 



TO CORDELIA. 



I DO not blame thco, that my life 
Is lonelier now than ev(;n btjfore ; 

For hadst thou been, indeed, my wife, 
(Vain dream that cheats no more !) 

Th(; fate, which from my earliest years 
Hath mad(j so dark the j)ath I tread, 

Had tau<£ht thee too, perchance, such tears 
As I have learn'd to shed. 

And that fix'd r^loom, wliich souls like mine 
Are school'd to wear with stubborn pride, 

Had cast too dark a shade o'er thine, — 
Hadst thou been by my side. 

1 blame thee not, that thou shouldst flee 

From paths where only weeds have sprung, 

Tho' loss of thee is loss to me 
Of all that made youth young. 

For 'tis not mine, and 'twas not thine, 
To shajje our course as first we strove : 

And powers which I could not combine 
Divide me from thy love. 

Alas ! we cannot choose our lives, — 
We can but bear the burthen given. 

In vain the feverish spirit strives 
With unrelenting heaven. 

For who can bid those tyrant stars 
The injustice of their laws repeal ? 

Why ask who makes our prison bars. 
Since they are made of steel V 



2,SS TIIK \VAN1>K.KKU. 

Tho star that rules my darkcnM lunir 
Is li\t in roat'liloss sj>liort>s on hioh : 

Tlio curso whirh toils my batlloil power 
Is si'vawlM a('ri\><s tho sky. 

]\Iy lu>ait knows all it t'olt. and tools: 
But nioro than this I shall not know, 

Till llo that mailo tho hoart vovoals 
AVh\ niiuo must sulVor so. 

1 only know that, novor yot, 

My lit'o hath tbumi what othors liiul, — ■ 
That poai'o of hoart whioh will not tVot 

Tho libros ot' tho niind. 

1 only knmv that not for mo 

Tho hmnan lovo, tho olasp, tho kiss; 

]\ly lovo in othor wi)rUls nmsf bi>, — 
Why was 1 born in this ? 

Tho boo is framod \o tlnd lior tbod 
In ovtM'v waysido llowor and boll, 

And biiilil within tho lu^llow woml 
llor own ambrosial ooil : 

Tho spidor hath »\ot loarn'd hor art, 
A honjo in rnin'd towors to sj>in ; 

l>nt what it sooks, my hoart. my hoart 
Is all unskill'il to win. 

Tho world was till'd, oro I was born. 

With n\an and maid, with bowor and brako. 
And nothing but tho barron thorn 

Kon\ain'd tor n\o to lako : 

1 \oo\< tho thorn. 1 wove it round. 

I mado a pioroin^- orown to woar : 
M\ own sad hands mysolf havo orown'd, 

Lord oi' my own despair. 



TO coKr>i;f,iA. 239 

Tliat whicli we. an;, wc an;. 'Twcn! vain 
'I'o plant willi toil what will not ^vow. 

The. cloud will hn!ak,an(l hrin^ the rain, 
VVh(;lli<;r w(; rcaf), or 80W. 

I cannot tuiTi tin; tlnindcr-hlast, 

Nor jjliick the hjvin's lurid root; 
I cannot chan^^c; th(j chan^^cjles.s past, 

Nor make the ocean mute. 

And if tlie l)olt of d(!ath must fall 

When!, bare of h(!ad, I walk my way, 

Why fet it fall! I will not call 
'Jo bid the Thunderer stay. 

"J'is mucli to know, whate'er betide 

'I'hc f)il<irini path I {)ac(! alone;, 
y/irni wilt not miss me from thy side 

WluMi its bji(;f course; is doiu;. 

Iladst tluju been mine;, — when skies w(;re drear, 
And wav(;s were rou;;h, (or thy sweet sake 

I should hav(; Ibund in all some fear 
My imnost breast to shake : 

Hut now, his fill th(; blast may ])low. 
The sea may ra;^e, th(; thunder roll, 

For every path by which I *ro 
Will reach the self-same goal. 

Too f>roud to fly, too weak to cope, 

I yet will wait, nor bow my head. 
Those wlio liave nothing left to ho[)e, 

Jlave nothin'' left to dread. 



240 THE WANDERER. 



A LETTER TO CORDELIA. 

Perchance, on earth, I shall not see thee ever 

Ever again : and my unwritten years 
Are sign'd out by that desolating " Never," 
And blurr'd with tears. 

'Tis hard, so young — so young as I am still. 

To feel for evermore from life depart 
All that can flatter the poor human will. 
Or fill the heart. 

Yet there was nothing in that sweet, and brief, 
And perisht intercourse, now closed for me, 
To add one thought unto my bitterest grief 
Upbraiding thee. 

'Tis somewhat to have known, albeit in vain. 

One woman in this sorrowful bad earth, 
Whose very loss can yet bequeathe to pain 
New faith in worth. 

If I have overrated, in the wild 

Blind heat of hope, the sense of aught which hath 
From the lost vision of thy beauty smiled 
On my lone path, 

My retribution is, that to the last 

I have o'errated, too, my power to cope 
With this fierce thought . . . that life must all be 
past 
Without life's hope ; 

And I would bless the chance which let me see 

Once more the comfort of thy face, altho' 
It were with beauty never born for me 
That face should glow. 



A LETTER TO CORDELIA. 241 

To see thee — all tliou wilt be — loved and loving — 

Even tho' another's — in the years to come — 
To -watch, once more, thy gracious sweetness 
moving 
Thro' its pure home, — 

Even this would seem less desolate, less drear, 

Than never, never to behold thee more — 
Never on those beloved lips to hear 
The voice of yore ! 

These weak words, O my friend, fell not more fast 
Than the weak scalding tears that with them fell. 
Nor tears, nor words came, when I saw thee 
last . . . 
Enough ! . . . Farewell. 

Farewell. If that dread Power which fashion'd 
man 
To till this planet, free to search and find 
The secret of his source as best he can. 
In his own mind. 

Hath any care, apart from that which moves 

Earth's myriads thro' Time's ages as they roll, 
For any single human life, or loves 
One separate soul, 

May He, whose wisdom portions out for me 

The moonless, changeless midnight of the heart, 
Still all his softest sunshine save for thee, 
Where'er thou art : 

And if, indeed, not any human eyes 

From human tears be free, — may Sorrow bring 
Only to thee her April-rain, whose sighs 
Soothe flowers in Spring. 
16 



rUK W ANOKKKK. 



FAILIKF.. 



1 11 AVI' soon tlioso that Wvmo lli-aviMi's aniumr 
worst Oil : 

I havo hoai\l Truth lio : 
Soon Lit'o, boslilo tho t'ounts lor whioh it thirstotl, 

Curso IuhI anil dio : 

1 havo t'olf thi^ haiul. whoso touoh was raptnro, 
braidinii" 

Anu^Uii my hair 
Love's ohoioost tlowrots. ami havo louud how lading 

Thoso garlanils woiv : 

1 havo watv'h'd my tirst and holiost hv^pos doparl. 

Owe af'tor v>no : 
I havo hoKl tho hand ol Ooath upon my hoart, 

And mailo no moan : 

I havo soon hor wlu>m lil'o's wholo saorllioo 

Was maiio to koop. 
Tass ooldly l\v mo witli a st rancor's oyos, 

Yot did not woop : 

Now ovou luy lH>dy tails mo : and u\y brow 

Aohos night anil ilay : 
I am woak w ith ovoi^work : how oan 1 now 

lio ibrth and play ? 

>Vhatl now that Youth's tbrgotton as[>irations 

Aro all ni) n\oiv, 
Uost thon\ mdood. all Youth's glad rooroatlons, 

- An nntriod storo V 

Alas, what skills this hoart ot' sad oxporionoo. 

This tVan\o oVrwnnight. 
This momory with lito's niotion all at varianoo, 

This aohiuii thouiiht "? 



MIHAN'l IfltOI'OH. 24.'{ 

I low Hliall I <;om<;, with tli(;Hf!, to follow jjIcaMun; 

Will! re, ollM',rH find it y 
Will not tli(Mr Had Htf.pH mar tlic jitcvncHl in<;aHiin;, 

Or \iif^ iM'.Iiind it V 

Still rniiHt llii; iii.in nifiv*^ sadlici- for tli<! dreams 

That mock'd the, Ijoy ; 
And, h;i,viri;jr faii'd to achifjve, mnst .still, it 8(;(;ms, 

l'';iil to <;'ij"y- 

[t is no <'oninif>n f;iilnr«', Ut have, faii'd 

VVhcn; man halli </\vi'.ti 
A whoir, life's «;lfortto the task UHHail'd — 

.S|)f,nt earth on heaven. 

If error ;ind if failurf; uuic.r hero, 

What heljjM re[)entane(; V 
llem(;nd)er thiH, O Lord, in thy H<!vere 

ija«t Herilence- ! 



MISANTIIKOrOS. 

]\(i,vT(L luivi.r lau navra yKkutr lau -navTa to //7/<)iv. 

J)ay's last li;.dit is dyin;^' out. 

All the placet ^rowH dim and rjrear. 
See ! th(j ^i'iHly hat's ;djout. 

Then; i.s nothin;^ left to fear: 
Little left to douht. 

Not a nol(i of nmsir; flits 

O'er the slacken'd har[).strin^s yonder 
From the skctleton that hits 

liy the biokctn harp, to jjonder 
(While the s|)ider knits 



244 THE WANDERER. 

Webs in each black socket-hole) 
Where is all the music tied. 

Music, hath it, then, a goal V . . . 
Broken harp, and brainless head ! 

Silent song and soul ! 

Not a light in yonder sky, 
Save that single wicked star, 

Leering with its wanton eye 

Thro' the shattcr'd window-bar ; 

Come to see me die ! 

All, save this, the monstrous night 
Hath erased and blotted bare 

As the Fool's brain . . . God's last light 
Winking at the Fiend's work there — 

Wrong made worse by right ! 

Gone the voice, the face, of yore ! 

Gone the dream of golden hair ! 
Gone the garb that Falsehood wore ! 

Gone the shame of being bare ! 
We may close the door. 

All tlie guests are slunk away. 

Not a footstep on the stairs ! 
Not a friend here, left to say 

'■'Amen " to a sinner's prayers, 
If he cared to pray ! 

Gone is Friendship's friendliness, 

After Ijove's fidelity : 
Gone is Honour in the mess. 

Spat uj>on by Charity : 
Faith has fled JDistress. 

Those grim tipstaves at the gate 
Freely may their work begin. 
Let them in ! they shall not wait. 



MISANTIIROrOS. 245 

There is little now within 
Left for Scorn and Hate. 

Oh, no doubt the air is foul ! 

'Tis the last lamp spits and stinks, 
Shuddering downward in the bowl 

Of the socket, from the brinks. 
What's a burn'd-out soul V 

Let them all go, unreproved ! 

For the source of tears is dried. 
What ! . . . One rests? . . . hath nothing moved 

That pale woman from my side, 
Whom I never loved ? 

You, with those dim eyes of yours, 

Sadder than all eyes save mine ! 
That dim forehead which immures 

Such faint helpless griefs, that pine 
For such hopeless cures ! 

Must you love me, spite of loathing ? 

Can't you leave me where I'm lying ? 
Oh, . . . you wait for our betrothing V 

I escape you, tho' — by dying ! 
Lay out my death-clothing. 

Well I would that your white face 

Were abolisht out of sight. 
With tiie glory and the grace 

Swallow'd long ago in night — 
Gone — without a trace ! 

Reach me down my golden harp. 

Set it here, beside my knee. 
Never fear that I shall warp 

All the chords of ecstasy, ^ 

Striking them too sharp ! 



246 THE WANDERER. 

Crown me with my crown of flowers. 

Faded roses every one ! 
Pluckt in those long-perisht bowers, 

By the nightshade overrun — 
Fit for brows like ours ! 

Fill me, now, my golden cup. 

Pour the black wine to the brim ! 
Till within me, while I sup, 

All the fires, long quench'd and dim, 
Flare, one moment, up. 

I will sing you a last song. 

I will pledge you a last health . . . 
Here's to Weakness seeming strong ! 

Here's to Want that follows Wealth ! 
Here's to Right gone wrong ! 

Curse me now the Oppressor's rod, 
And the meanness of the weak ; 

And the fool that apes the nod ; 
And the world at hide and seek 

With the wrath of God. 

Dreams of man's unvalued good, 
By mankind's unholy means ! 

Curse the people in their mud ! 
And the wicked Kings and Queens, 

Lying by the Rood. 

Fill ! to every plague . . . and first. 
Love, that breeds its own decay ; 

Rotten, ere the blossom burst. 

Next, the friend that slinks away. 

When you need him worst. 

O the world's inhuman ways ! 
And the heartless social lie ! 



MISANTHROPOS. 247 

And the coward, cheapening praise ! 

And the patience of the sky, 
Lighting such bad days ! 

Cursed be the heritage 

Of the sins we have not sinn'd ! 
Cursed be this boasting age, 

And the Wind that lead the blind 
O'er its creaking stage ! 

O the vice within the blood. 

And the sin within the sense ! 
And the fallen angelhood. 

With its yearnings, too immense 
To be understood ! 

Curse the hound with beaten hide, 
When he turns and licks the hand ! 

Curse this woman at my side ! 
And the memory of the land 

Where my first love died. 

Cursed be the next and most, 
(With whatever curse most kills) 

Me . . . the man whose soul is lost ; 
Foul'd by each of all these ills — 

Fill'd with death and dust ! 

Take away the harp of gold. 

And the empty wine-cup too. 
Lay me out : for I grow cold. 

There is something dim in view. 
Which must pass untold : — 

Something dim, and something vast — 

Out of n;ach of all I say. 
Language ceases . . . husht, aghast. 

What am I, to curse or pray ? 
God succeeds at last ! 



B K VI. 

PALINGENESIS. 



A PRAYER. 

INIy Saviour, dare I oonie to Thee, 
Who lot the httle chiUlron come ? 
But 1 ? . . . my tsoul is taiut iu me ! 
I oome Irom wauilerino- to autl fro 
This -weary workl. There still his rouuil 
The Aoeuser goes : but Thee I t'ouud 
Not any^vhere. Both joy and woe 
Have pass'd me by. 1 am too weak 
To grieve or smile. And yet I know 
That tears lie deep in all I do. 
The homeless that are sick tor home 
Are not so wretched. Ere it break. 
Receive my heart ; and tor the sake, 
Not of my sorrows, but of Thine, 
Bend down Thy holy eyes on mine, 
AVhich are too full of misery 
To see Thee clearly, tho* they seek. 
Yet. if I heard Thy voice say ..." Come 
So might I. ilying, ilie near Thee. 
It shames me not, to have pass'd by 
The temple-doors in every street 
AVhere men protaned Thee : but that I 
Have left neglected, choked with weeds, 
Defrauded of its incense sweet 



I'ALINGKNKSIH. 249 

From holy tlioiifrlits and loyal (IccmIs, 
The f'airu^ Thou navest mo to inshririG 
Thco in this wn^tchcd heart of mine. 
The Satyr tlicu'e hath enter'd in ; 
The Owl that loves the darken'd hour; 
And obscene i^hapes of"ni<rht and sin 
Still haunt, where (jod design'd a bovv(;r 
For angels. 

Y(;t I will not say 
IIoAV oft I have aspired in vain, 
How toil'd along th(! rugged way, 
And held my faith above my pain, 
For this Thou knowcst. Thou knowest wlicn 
I fiilter'd, and wlum I was strong ; 
And how from that of other men 
My fate was different : all the wrong 
Which (hivastated hope in me : 
The ravaged years ; the excited heart, 
That found in pain its only part 
Of love : th(! mastcu* misery 
That shattei'd all my early years. 
From whi(di, in vain, I sought to flee : 
Thou knowest the long repentant tears. 
Thou heard'st me (;ry against the spheres, 
So sharp my anguish seem'd to be ! 
All this Thou knowest. Tho' I should keep 
Silence, Thou knowest my hands were free 
From sin, when all things cried to me 
To sin. TUon knowest that, had I roU'd 
My soul in hell-llame fifty-fold, 
My sorrow could not be more deef). 
Lord ! there is nothin'^ hid from Thee. 



250 THE WANDERER. 



EUTHANASIA. 

(written after a severe illness.) 

Spring to the world, and strength to me, returns ; 

And flowers return, — but not the flowers I 
knew. 
I live : the fire of life within me burns ; 

But all my life is dead. The land I view 
I know not ; nor the life which I re<jain. 

Within the hollow of the hand of death 

I have lain so long, that now I draw the breath 
Of life as unfamiliar, and with pain. 

Of life : but not the life which is no more ; — 

That tender, tearful, warm, and passionate thing ; 
That wayward, restless, wistful life of yore ; 

Which now lies, cold, beneath the clasp of Spring, 
As last year's leaves : but such a life as seems 

A strange new-comer, coy and all-afraid. 

No motion heaves the heart where it is laid, 
Save when the past returns to me in dreams. 

In dreams, like memories of another world : 
The beauty, and the passion, and the pain 

The wizardry by which my youth was whirl'd ! 
Round vain desires, — so violent, yet so vain ! 

The love which desolated life, yet made 
So dear its desolation : and the creeds 
Which, one by one, snapp'd in my hold like 
reeds. 

Beneath the weight of need upon them laid ! 

For each man deems his own sand-house secure 
While life's wild waves are luU'd ; yet who can 
say, 



EUTHANASIA. 251 

If yet his faith's foundations do endure, 

It is not that no wind hath blown that way ? 

Must we, even for their beauty's sake, keep furl'd 
Our fairest creeds, lest earth should sully them, 
And take what ruder help chance sends, to stem 

The rubs and wrenchings of this boisterous world? 

Alas ! 'tis not the creed that saves the man : 

It is the man that justifies the creed : 
And each must save his own soul as he can, 

Since each is burthen'd with a different need. 
Round each the bandit passions lurk ; and, fast 

And furious, swarm to strip the pilgrim bare ; 

Then, oft, in lonely places unaware. 
Fall on him, and do murder him at last. 

And oft the light of truth, which thro' the dark 
We fetch'd such toilful compass to detect. 

Glares thro' the broken cloud on the lost bark, 
And shows the rock — too late, when all is 
wreck'd ! 

Not from one watch-tower o'er the deep, alone. 
It streams, but lightens there and lightens here 
With lights so numberless (like heaven's eighth 
sphere) 

That all their myriad splendours seem but one. 

Time was, when it seem'd possible to be 

(Then, when this shatter'd prow first felt the 
foam) 

Columbus to some far Philosophy, 

And bring, perchance, the golden Indies home. 

O siren isles of the enchanted main 

Thro' which I linger'd ! altars, temples, groves, 
Whelm'd in the salt sea wave, that rolls and roves 

Around each desolated lost domain ! 

Over all these hath pass'd the deluge. And, 
Saved from the sea, forlornly face to face 



252 THE AVANDERER. 

With the gaunt ruin of a world, I stand. 
But two alone of all that perisht race 

Survive to share with me my wanderings; 

Doubt and Experience. These my steps attend, 
Ever ; and oft above my harp they bend, 

And, weeping with me, weep among it^ strings. 

Yet, — saved, tho' in a land unconsecrate 

By any memory, it seems good to me 
To build an altar to the Lord ; and wait 

Some token, either from the land or sea, 
To point me to my rest, which should be near. 

Rude is the work, and simple is my skill ; 

Yet, if the hand could answer to the will. 
This pile should lack not incense. Father, hear 

My cry unto thee. Make thy covenant 

Fast with my spirit. Bind within Thy bow 

The whole horizon of my tears. I pant 

For Thy refreshing. Bid Thy fountains flow 

In this dry desert, where no springs I see. 
Before I venture in an unknown land, 
Here will I clear the ground on which I stand. 

And justify the hope Thou gavest me. 

I cannot make qnite clear what comes and goes 
In fitful light, by waning gleams descried. 

The Spirit, blowing where it listeth, blows 
Only at times, some single fold aside 

Of that great veil which hangs o'er the Unknown. 
Yet do the feeble, fleeting lights that fall, 
Reveal enough, in part, for hope in all : 

And that seems surest which the least is shown. 

God is a spirit. It is also said 
Man is a spirit. Can I tlierefore deem 

The two in nature separate? The made 
Hath in it of the Maker. Ilcnce I seem 

A step towards light ; — since 'tis the property 



EUTHANASIA. 253 

Of spirit to possess itself in all 
It is possest by ; — halv'd yet integral ; 
One person, various personality. 

To say the Infinite is that which lies 

Beyond the Finite, . . . were it not to set 

A border mark to the immensities V 
Far as these mortal senses measure yet 

Their little region of the mighty plan, 

Thro' valves of birth and death — are heard forever 
The finite steps of infinite endeavour 

Moving thro' Nature and the mind of man. 

If man, — the finite spirit, — in infinity 

Alone can find the truth of his ideal, 
Dare I not deem that infinite Divinity 

Within the finite must assume the real? 
For what so feverish fancy, reckless hurl'd 

Thro' a ruin'd brain, did ever yet descry 

A symbol sad enough to signify 
The conscious God of an unconscious world ? 

Wherefore, thus much perceived, to recognize 

In God, the infinite spirit of Unity, 
In man, the finite spirit, here implies 

An interchanged perception ; — Deity 
Within humanity made manifest : 

Not here man lonely, there a lonely God ; 

But, in all paths by human nature trod, 
Infinity in Finity exprest. 

This interchange, upon man's part, I call 

Religion : revelation on the part 
Of Deity : wherefrom there seems to fall 

Tis consequence (the point from which I start) 
If God and man be one (a unity 

Of which religion is the human side) 

This must in man's religion be descried, 
A consciousness and a reality. 



254 THE WANDERER. 

Whilst man in nature dwells, liis God is still 

In nature ; thence, in time, there intervenes 
The Law : he learns to fortify his will 

Against his passions, by external means : 
And God becomes the Lawgiver : but when 

Corruption in the natural state we see, 

And in the legal hopeless tyranny. 
We seem to need (if needed not till then) 

That which doth uplift nature, and yet makes 
More light the heavy letter of the law. 

Then for the Perfect the Lnperfect aches, 
Till love is born upon the deeps of awe. 

Yet what of this, . . . that God in man may be, 
And man, tho' mortal, of a race divine. 
If no assurance lives which may incline 

The heart of man to man's divinity ? 

" There is no God "... the Fool saith — to his heart, 

Yet shapes a godhead from his intellect. 
Is mind than heart less human, . . . that we part 

Thought from aifection, and from mind erect 
A deity merely intellectual V 

If God there be, devoid of sympathy 

For man, he is not man's divinity. 
A God unloving were no God at all. 

This felt, ... I ask not ..." What is God ? " but 
" What 

Are my relations with Him ? " This alone 
Concerns me now : since, if I know this not, 

Tho' I should know the sources of the sun, 
Or what within the hot heart of the earth 

Lulls the soft spirit of the fire, altho' 

The mandate of the thunder I should know. 
To me my knowledge would be nothing worth. 

What message, or what messenger to man ? 
Whereby shall revelation reach the soul ? 



EUTHANASIA. 255 

For who, by searching, finds out God ? How 
can 
My utmost steps, unguided, gain the goal 

Of necessary knowledge ? It is clear 

I cannot reach the gates of heaven, and knock 
And enter : tho' I stood upon the rock 

Like Moses, God must speak ere I can hear, 

And touch me ere I feel him. He must come 
To me (I cannot join Him in the cloud) 

Stand at the dim doors of my mortal home ; 
Lift the low latch of life ; and enter, bow'd 

Unto this earthly roof; and sit within 
The circle of the senses ; at the hearth 
Of the ailections ; be my guest on earth. 

Loving my love, and sorrowing in my sin. 

Since, tho' I stripp'd Divinity, in thought, 

From passion, which is personality, 
My God would still be human : tho' I sought 

In the bird's wing or in the insect's eye, 
Rather than in this broken heart of mine. 

His presence, human still : human would be 

All human thought conceives. Humanity, 
Being less human, is not more divine. 

The soul, then, cannot stipulate or refuse 

The fashion of the heavenly embassy. 
Since God is here the speaker, He must choose 

The words He wills. Already I descry 
That God and man are one, divided here, 

Yet reconcilable. One doubt survives. 

There is a dread condition to men's lives : 
We die : and, from it's death, it would appear 

Our nature is not one with the divine. 

Not so. The Man-God dies ; and by his death 
Doth with his own immortal life combine 

The spirit pining in this mortal breath. 



256 THE AVANOEKKK. 

Who from lumsolt' liimself diil alienate 
That he, veturning- to himseli", iui<iht pave 
A pathway hence, to heaven from the grave, 

For man to follow — thro' the heavenly gate. 

AVert thou, my Christ, not ignorant of grief? 

A man of sorrows ? Not for sorrow's sake 
(Lord, I believe : help thon mine unbelief!) 

Beneath the thorns did thy i)ure forehead 
aehe : 
But that in sorrow only, unto sorrow, 

Can comfort come ; in numhood only, man 

Perceive man's destiny. In Nature's plan 
Our path is over jNlidnight to To-morrow. 

And so the Prince of Life, in dying, gave 
Lhidying life to mortals. Once he stood 

Among his fellows, on this side the grave, 
A man, perceptible to llesh and blood : 

Now, taken from our sight, he dwells no less 
Within our mortal memory and thought, 
The mystery of all he was, and wrought, 

Is made a part of general consciousness. 

And in this consciousness I reach repose. 

Spent with the howling main and desert 
sand : 
Almost too faint to ]>luck the unfading rose 

Of peace, that bows its beauty to my hand. 
Here Reason fails, and leaves me ; my }>ale guiile 

Across the wilderness — by a stern command, 

Shut out, like Moses, from the Promist Land. 
Touching its own achievement, it hath died. 

Ah yet ! I have but wrung the victory 

From Thought! Not passionless svill be my 
path. 

Yet on my life's pale forehead I can see 

The flush of squander'd fires. Passion hath 



THE soul's science. 257 

Yet, in the purpose of my days its place. 

But clianged in aspect : turn VI unto the East, 
Whence grows the dayspring from on high, at 
least 

A finer fei-vour trembles on its face. 



THE SOUL'S SCIENCE. 

Can History prove the truth which hatli 
Its record in the silent soul V 

Or Mathematics mete the path 
Whereby the spirit seeks its goal V 

Can Love of aught but Love inherit 
The l)lesslng which is born of Love ? 

The spirit knoweth of the spirit : 
The soul alone the soul can prove. 

The eye to see : the ear to hear : 
The working hand to help the will : 

To every sense his separate sphere : 
And unto each his several skill. 

The ear to sight, the eye to sound, 
Is callous : unto each is given 

His lorddom in his proper bound. 

The soul, the soul to find out heaven ! 

There is a glory veil'd to sight ; 

A voice which never ear hath heard; 
There is a law no hand can write, 

Yet stronger than the written word. 

And hast thou tidings for my soul 
O teacher V to my soul intrust 

Alone the purport of thy scroll : 
Or vex me not with learned dust. 
17 



TlIK NVANnKKKK. 



A rSALMi OF I'ONFKSSION. 

Fri I s»H>M iloth Sori'inv niako lior ct^vonant 
\\'lth Liti< ; ;ui(l Kwvo hor sh;uU>w In tlio docu' : 

And ;Ul thoso t'liluro tlavs, tor >vhu'li wo pant, 
Uo omno in nuMirninii' tor the days ot" yoro. 

Still thro' tho worKl uio.uns IMonjorv soi>kinii; Lovo, 
Palo as tho \ovc\\ which iiriovinii" t\Mvs ho\\\ 
SookiniT Prosorpina, on that dark shmv 

^^ lu'ro luily phantoms tliro' tho twiU^ht njovo. 

Tho n>oro ayo I'hatiiiO. tlio nuu"o is all tho sanio. 

Our last griof was a talo oi' otlior yoars 
Qnito outworn, till to our own hoarts it oamo. 

W'ishos aro pili^rinis to tho A'alo of Toars. 
Our brii:htt\><t ji\vs aro but as airy shapos 

0\' oKnul, that fado on ovouinu's oliinmorin.'jj 
sli^po ; 

And disappinntuuMJt hawks tho hovoring hopo 
Foivvor pookiuii at tho paintoil grapos. 

^Vhy i-an wo not ono nuMuont ]K\nso, and ohorish 

Lovo. tho* lovo turn to toars ? ox' t'or hopo's sake 
Kloss hoiH\ alboit tho thin<* wo hopo may porish ? 

For happiuoss is not in what wo tako. 
Hut what wo iiivo. What n\attor tho' tho thinn 

Wo olino- to most should tail us? l)ust to dust ! 

It is the f'ttliiKj for tho thin«i-^tho trust 
In boanty somowhoro, to whioh souls shoulil oliuji-. 

!My youth has tail'd, if t'ailuro lios in auoht 

'liio warm hoart tlroams, im- whioh tho working 
hand 
Is sot to do. 1 havo fail'il in aidloss thought. 

And stoadt'ast purposo, and in solf oonnnand. 
1 havo fail'd in hopo, in hoalth. in Kno : fail'il in 
tho word. 



A I'HAI.M OF CONKKHHIOV. 'J5.'i 

And in {]>(: dacA too f have; faird. Ah yet, 

Albeit witli <;yf;H from reoent weepin^rs wet, 

Sir);( thou, niy Soul, thy psalrii unto The Lord ! 

Tlie burthen of the desert and the sea ! 

'J'h(; burthen of the vision in the vale ! 
My threhhiriM-f!r>or, iny tlirehliin^f-lloor I ah, me, 

'J'hy wind lial.li strewn my eorn, and spoil'd the 

flail : 

■J'he burthen of J>)uniah and of" JJedanirn ! 

What of the ni;fht, O wat.ehinan, of tlie night V 
The j/Iory of K<;dar faileth: and the rniyht 

Of nii;.dity men i.s mini-slied and dim. 

Tlie iriornin<f eonieth, and the ni;.'ht, ho eries. 

'i'he wateiiinan eries the mornin;r, too, is nigher. 
And, if ye, would irujuire, lift up your eyes, 

Inquire of tlie Lord, r(;turn, in(|uin; ! 
J HtarnJ upon the watehtovv(;r all day long : 

And all the night long 1 am s(;t in ward. 

Is it thy fe(jt upon the mountains, J^ord ? 
I sing against the darkness : hear my song! 

'J'iie majesty of Kedar liath been spoil'd : 

Jiound are the arrows: broken is the bow. 
J com(; before the J.,ord with garments soil'd. 

I'he ash(;s of my life are on my brow. 
'Jak(^ thou thy liarp, and go about the city, 

O daughter of l>esire, with garments torn ; 

Sing many songs, make melody, and ntourn 
'i'hat thou may'st be remember'd unto pity. 

Just, awfid (jo(J ! here at thy feet I lay 

My life's most precious offering: dearly bought, 

Tliou knowest willi what tfjil by night and day : 
1'liou knowest tin; pain, the pansion, and the 
thought. 

I bring thecj my youth's failure. J liave spent 
My youth ujjon it. All J have is here. 



iJlU) rill" UANJMKKU. 

^Vo^'^» it uoiih all it is no(, ptico iwvmv »U>;ir 
l\nilil 1 h;»\ o paiil tor its ari'Oiuplislimont V 

Yi>t is it imu'h. It" I co\i\d say to tlioo 

**Ao(|uit mo, .^u^llio; tor I an\ thus, aiul thus; 

Anil havo aohiovod— ovon so nuu'h." ShouUl I bo 
Thus wholly toarloss ami impotuous 

Vo rush iuto thy prosoiu'O ? I >ni>xht woiiih 
Tho littlo dono against tho uiulono uuu'h : 
My uiorit with thy luori'y : and. as suoh, 

llag^lo Nviih pardon tor a prioo to pay. 

l>ut uiTvv tho tulnoss ot' its tailuro n»akos 

My spirit toarloss ; and dospair >innvs hold. 
My lu\>w, bonouth its sad solt-knowlodvix* aohos. 

l.itV's prosonoo passos ' Phi no a thousiuid toUl 
In oontou^platod torror. Tun I Kxso 

Aught by that ilosnorato toniority 

\Vhii'h loavos no onoioo but to suirondor Thoe 
My lito without oouditiou ? Could 1 oluuvso 

A stipulatoil sontonoo. 1 unght ask 

For ooilod dalHanv'o to smno ohorisht vioo: 
()r hali*-ivu\issiot\ ot' somo dosporato task : 

Now. all I havo is hatotul. What is tho prioo ? 
Spoak, \An\\ I 1 hoar tho Fiond's hanii nt tho dixir. 

llolTs slavory or hoavon's sorvioo is it tho 
ohoioo V 

How i>a>i I paltor with tho toru\s ? (.) voioo 
AN'honoo ilo 1 hoar thoo ..." lu>: and sin no uioro"? 

No nioro. no nioro ? Hut I havo kist iload whito 
Tho ohook of \"ioo. No nioro tho harlot hiilos 

Hor loathsonionoss ot' litioainont t'mm my sight. 
No n\oiv within my Invsiim thoro abidos 

llor ptnson'il portumo. Oh, tho witoh's mioo 
Havo oat hor soarlot robo ami diapor, 
•Vnil sho t'aivs nakod I Fart t*j\>m hor — fi\m\ hor? 

Is this the prioo, O l^ml, is this the price '? 



A f'KAf-M OF r;oNFK«Hro.v. 2G1 

Yet, tlio' \if'-r wi',\) \)<; l>rok(;ri, bori'ln, I know, 

Slow fUHtorn frarnc-« in tlic. hf.ron;; f'or^<; of time, 

\Vlii<:l) outlant lovo, antJ will not w<;ar wltfi woo, 
i\or hr«*,ak l>(;ri(;ath tlic, co^^nizanoo of" crime. 

'Ilir; witch iioun bare. Jiut he, — the father fiend, 
'I'hat roams the nntJinfty f'urrowB of my 'layw. 
Vet w;ilkH the fiehJ oflife ; and, where he strays, 

Tlic hu-handry of heaven for heil is glean'd. 

Lulls ar(! thrtre in man's life whif;h are not peace. 

'runiults whicli are not trimrifjIiH. J)o I take 
'i'he pauwj fjf paHwion for the fiend's dc^r-case V 

'I'hiH fro.-t of ^oief hath nutiil/d the drow»ing 
Knak<; ; 
Wliicfi yet may wake, and hUu<^ me in the heat 

Of new emotirniH. What Hhall bar the door 

A;:ainst the old familiar, tliat of yore 
(Jame without call, and Hat within my «(!at V 

When e.v(;nirij.' I;rinf.'s its <lim ^'rini liour a^ain, 
AikJ hell lets loose its dusky brood awhile. 

Shall I not find him in the darkness tfien V 

'J'Im; same, Kufjservient and y(;t insolent smile? 

The, same indifferent ijrriominious face? 

The, same old sense of housfjhold horror, come 
Like a tame, ereatnre, back intfj its home V 

Meetiri*: nut, haply, in my woriterl pbve, 

Witli the loatli'd f"n;edom ofarj unloved mat(;, 

Or (;rouchin<^ on my pillow as of" old V 
Knowinf.' I hate him, impotent in liate, ! 

Theref"or<; more subth;, strenuous, and bold. 
'i'huH anci(;nt habit will usurp voun;^ will, 

And each new efI"ort rivet the old thrall. 

No matter! thos<! who elind> must r-ount to fall. 
But (v'lch new fall will prf>ve tJKMn climbin;.»; still. 

O wn;tc}i(;d man ! the body of this death 
Which, groaning in th<5 spirit, I yet bear 



262 THE WANDERKR.- 

On to the end (so that I breathe the breath 
Of its corruption, even tho' breathing prayer) 

What shall take iVoni me ? JNIust I drag forever 
The eoUi corpse of the life which I have kill'd 
Hut cannot bury V JNlust my heart be fill'd 

With the dry dust of every dead endeavour ? 

For often, at the mid of the long night, 

Some devil enters into the dead clay, 
And gives it life unnatural in my sight. 

The dead man rises np ; and roams away, 
Back to the mouUler'd mansions of the Past: 

And lights a lurid revel in the halls 

Of vacant years ; and lifts his voice, and calls, " 
Till troops of phantoms gather round him fast. 

Frail gold-hair'd corpses, in whose eyes there 
lives 

A strange regret too wild to let them rest : 
Crowds of pale maidens, who were never wives ; 

And infants that all died npon the breast 
That suckled them. And these make revelry 

^lingled with wailing all the midnight thro', 

Till the sad day doth with stern light renew 
The toiling land, and the complaining sea. 

Full well T know that in this world of ours 

The dreadful Commonplace succeeds all change. 

We catch at times a gleam of Hying powers 

That ])ass in storm some windy mountain range : 

But, while we gaze, the cloud returns o'er all. 
And each, to guitle him up the devious height. 
Must take, and bless, whatever earthly light 

From household hearths, or shepherd fires, may fall. 

This wave, that groans and wi-ithes npon the beach, 
To-morrow will submit itself to calm ; 

That wind that rushes, moaning, ont of reach, 
Will die anon beneath some breathless palm ; 



A PSALM OF CONFESSION. 2C3 

These tears, these sighs, tliese motions of the soul, 
This inexpressible pining of the mind, 
The stern indifferent laws of life shall bind, 

And fix forever in their old eontrol. 

Behold this half-tamed universe of things ! 

That cannot break, nor wholly bear, its chain. 
Its heart by fits grows wild : it leaps, it springs ; 

Then the chain galls, and kennels it again. 
If man were formed with all his faculties 

For sorrow, I should sorrow for him less. 

Considering a life so brief, the stress 
Of its short passion I might well despise : 

But all man's faculties are for delight; 

But all man's life is compass'd with what seems 
Framed for enjoyment : but from all that sight 

And sense reveal a magic murmur streams 
Into man's heart, which says, or seems to say, 

" Be happy ! " . . . and the heart of man replies 

" Leave happiness to brutes : I would be wise : 
Give me, not peace, but science, glory, art." 

Therefore, age, sickness, and mortality 
Are but the lightest portion of his pain : 

Therefore, sluit out from joy, incessantly 
Death finds him toiling at a task that's vain. 

I weep the want of all he pines to have : 
I weep the loss of all he leaves behind : — 
Contentment, and repose, and peace of mind, 

Pawn'd for the purchase of a little grave : 

I weep the hundred centuries of time ; 

I weep the millions that have squander'd them 
In error, doubt, anxiety, and crime. 

Here, where the free birds sing from leaf and 
stem : 
I weep . . . but what are tears ? What I deplore 

I knew not, half a hundred years ago: 



2(54 TllK AVAN1>KUKU. 

\\u\ hall' a liundrod yi^ars iVoiu Iumu'O,! know 
That what 1 wi'i'j) fur I shall know no more. 

Tin' spiiit of that wldo and loalloss wind 
That wandors o'or the nn('oni])anlonM son, 

Soari'liioL!; tor what it novor siHuns to tind, 

Stirr'd in u\y hair, and niovod my hoart in mo. 

To follow It, tar ovor land and niain : 

And ovorvwhoro ovor this earth's searr'd taoo 
The tootsto|>s ot' a (Jod I siHMn'd to trace; 

l>nt everywhon^ slopes of a (\od in pain. 

If. haply, he that made this heart of mine, 

llims(>lf in sorrow walkM the world erewhilc, 
^^'hat then am 1, to marvel or repine 

That 1 i;o monrnini:; ever in tlu> smile 
Of universal nature, searehinjx ever 

'I'ho phantom of a joy whioh here I miss? 

My hoart iidiahits other worlds than this. 
Therefore niy searoh is here a vain endoavonr. 

Methoiight, ... (it was (ho nndnioht of my sonl. 
Dead midnight) that I stood on Calvary : 

I fonnd iho t'ross, but not the (''hrist. 'I'he whole 
Ot" heaven was dark: and I wont bitterly 

Wi>opin<i-. booansi^ 1 ti>und hin> not. ISIethonjiht, . . 
(It was the twilight ot"(ho dawn and mist) 
I stood botbro the sepnlohre of Christ: 

The sojmlohre was vaoant, void of au<>ht 

Saving the oore-olothos ol'tho ^rave, whioli were 
UplbKlon straight and empty : bitterly 

Weeping I sttuHl. beoanse not even there 
1 fonnd him. Then a voioe spake nnto me, 

"Whom seokt>st thon V Why is thy hoart dis- 
may 'd ? 
.Josns i>f Na/.aroth, ho is not hero : 
HohoKl. tlu> \An\\ is risen. Ho of oheer: 

Approaeh, belu)M the place where he was laid." 



RKqiIIKH(;AT. 2G.'> 

And while lie spako, tlic. Kunriso smoto the, world. 

" (jIo forth, and tell thy brethren," spake the 
voiee; 
" The Lord is risen," .Sijd(h;nly iinfurl'd, 

'I'he whoh; iineh»ii(h'd ()ri(Uit did i-ejf)ic(; 
In ^dory. Wherefon; sliouhl I mourn that liere 

My h(!art feeds vacant of what most it needs V 

(yhrist is arisen ! . . . the C(!re-(de>th(;s and the 
weeds 
That wra[)j)'d him lyin^i; in this sepnhdii-e 

Ol" earth, he hatli ahaiKhiri'd ; Ix'in^ _trone 
Ha(di into hi^aven, where w(! too must turn 

Our ^'aze to find him. I'our, O risen Sun 
Of Kii^hteousness, the h;^ht for wlii(di J y(!arn 

Uj)on th(! darkness of this mortal hour, 

This traet of nifj^lit in whieh 1 walk forlorn : 
Behold the ni;^lit is now far sixmt. The morn 

J>reaks, breakin;^ from afar thro' a ni^fht shower. 



KEQIJIESCAT. 

T HOJKjiir to l)uild a (h'.'ithh^ss monument 

To my dead love. Therein I meant to f)laeo 
All j)reci()us thin<;s, and rare : as Nature bhuit 

All siiiuh' s\v(!(!tn(!ss(!s in one sw(!et fiiee. 
I could not build it worthy her mute mcirit, 

Nor wr)rthy lier white brows and holy eyes, 
Nor worthy of her perfcict and [)ure s[)irit, 

Nor of my own immortal nximories. 
r>ut, as some rapt arti(i(;er of old, 

To (iiishrine the aslu^s of a virji;in saint, 
Mijfht scheme to work with ivory, and fine ^old, 

And ca,rven <!;ems, and Icinjenthid and (juaint 
Seraj)hic lu^aldries ; searediiufj; far lands. 

Orient and Occident, for all things rare, 



l\> \\>«>V0»\\(0 tUo (oil of tVMMXMVt l\;Uuls. 

Auil i«siko his KUmuv. liko Uor virtuo, iVir ; 
Kitowiu^ »u» K\\utv bonutit\>l ns sho. 

,\\ul rtU his UlMur voivi. h«» to U\iiuiU> 
A !<'UMV<1 sv>n\nv ; j*v> I \vv>rkM. Ah, soo 

llo>\^ nw tho l\\>iiu\outs of uw shj^UorM piU» ! 
I koop thorn. nuil ti<o tlowiM-s th;U spvcuvu' Ivtwoon 

Thoir lMS>kon \vv»ikmju»shi|> iho tU>\voi>! unil 
wotnls ' 
Slvvp sv^t AiuoUij tho \ioU^ts» l> mv (.v^uoon 

Lio onlm «nuM\vt i«y ruiuM thou^jhts auvI vioinls. 



KrilAHUK. 
r \i;r i. 

Cm VNiJK willunu tvM'm. aiul strito without ivsult. 

^o^>^M\s thvU jv^ss, juul sluuKnvs thsU »vmaiiu 
Ono sn\u\iiv. iu\iHM\otrahK\ auU vhvuU 

Suii^jx^stion ot .11 hopo, ths'^t's hojHnl in \\Vu\» 
lH>hv4v\ tho woiKl uvjuv iviijus iu 1 1 1 is Uolijjht 

IVvoivos; his ^Mwor tAtijjwi^; his stn^njith is 
hriof; 

VNon his ivliijiou pivsup^vvjos ijriot* 
Uis iuomii\i» is uv>t oottniu i4' tho nijjht. 

I hjwv U^holil, without ivjiwt* tho tn»uk» 

Whioh ^nvp^Al th»vo huiuhvil smuiuoi-s on its 
K>U)ihvS 

NNhioh hovis^nK ot' oKK tho i«orrv Im»\K »»ui ilrunk 
Tho ^iiviwo »lo\vs ot »i»\ a<ui jiJivo onixuist^ 

To tho tV-xv \vi»uls ot* hivivou, lio ovortlnvwu 
Ami\ist tho ttvos whioh its own tVnitvi^x^ Ih)»\>, 
Its pi\n\\is\> is l\ilt\U\h It is no uunv, 

r>nt it luth Ihvu» Its iK>*ttuv is <Ivm\o» 



Jiuf iIm; wiI<J hmU, Ifiat Hji>nu'/H aJ>ov<'. tl)<; ritarhh I 
Siron;;, and i»up<?rl>, it nnan it't-j- iIk; wild, 

Vaifi ttiiiT'^y oi' \h'Au^ I Vor \ht'. JiarKfi 
Afj'J fiilia <)()'/M it\n">u\y fiatli <J<!fil<i<l 

']'))<•, r/^xitx v/Utmt Map it llv(^« hy. \h'.n\i'.u <Ioth ^ivc 
No \)\('>M'tUff U) hn bofiprlit!. '1 !«? Iiiiinid wind 
\'oln ffi«^fn. 'I'Ua vapourx warp t\nun. All ']«'/- 
'•linrid, 

/l« lifit l);iJ|i r.i'umt], ura it hatli cttuHul U> \'iv<:. 

(Jl/ild of t|j<', waHf.<', and niir«linj/ of fhc p<i«t ! 

A klndri'd faf<: liaili waf';ird, and w<ipt, tl)in<; 
own. 
'Iliiruf <ipitapli in wrillcn in my \)ntn>.t. 

Yt'/drn chiiu'/y,. Oay irf-n<in oiit day. l''or in<} 
alofK'. 
No <;lian;/c i« niirnt witliin fli<i f>roodin;^ hud. 

Hati<if;y I hav<'. not known, and y<tt 

I witlicr in tli<i void of lifli, and i'nd 
A f'liliU; tin»<;, with an unp<^a':<:rul hlood. 

'J li't dayH '.ifc, all too Ion;/, tli<{ nij.ditH trx> fair, 
Aii'l too niu';li rt:<lin:Hn Hatiat<;« tfK; rot^i. 

hli»r>-:('iil wtanon I hl<;nt and halfJiy air I 

\Vav<fH ! fnoordi;(ljt I HiU^itC't I yi'.avn of lost r<;[;OK<; I 
Iiowftr-H, and hliad(!t<, fh?it <foho<',d to tlui tniad 

or youn;^ Koniari'M; I hi/dw that, from woodland 
harM, 

San(r, Hitr<',t]:u]\ri</ forth I Ik; timid htarn ' 
Vr^nth ! h<;;i.rjty I pa'-;-ion I wl)it|](;r an; y<; fl<;<J V 

1 wait, and lonj( hav(; wait<;d, afid y<;t wait 
'I'Ik; cininit'^ of th<; footHtf;pM which y«} told 

My heart U) watch for. Vet th<i hour 'in lat^r-, 
ArifJ y<; have; h;ft m<;. ]>id they lie, of old. 

Your thouHand voieew j^rophenyin;/ hlinH V 
That trouhle,ri all the current of a fate. 
Which <;he mi;_d«t have been [)<;ace,ful ! I await 

'J h<; thin;.^ I hav<; not fourid, y<;t would not iniKM. 



2G8 THE WANDERKR. 

To face out chiUlliood, and grow up to man, 
To make a noise, and question all one sees, 

The astral orbit of a world to span, 

And, after a few days, to take one's ease 

Under the graveyard grasses, — this, my friend, 
Appears to me a thing too strange but what 
1 wish to know its meaning. 1 would not 

Depart before I have perceived the end. 

And I would know what, here below the sun, 

lie is, and what his place, that being which 
seems 
The end of all means, yet the means of none ; 

Who searches, and combines, aspires, and 
dreams ; 
Seeking new things with ever the same hope, 

Seeking new hopes in ever the same thing ; 

A king without the powers of a king, 
A beggar Avith a kingdom in his scope ; 

AVho only sees in what he hath attain'd 

The means whereby he may attain to more ; 
Who only linds in that whitdi he hath gain'd 

The want of what he did not want belbre ; 
Whom weakness strengthens ; who is soothed by 
strife ; 

Who seeks new joys to prize the absent most; 

Still from illusion to illusion tost, 
Himself the great illusion of his life ! 

Why is it, all deep emotion makes us sigh 

To (juit this world '? AVhat better thing than 
death 

Can follow after i-aj^fure ? " Let us die ! " 
This is the last wish on the lover's breath. 

If thou Avouldst live, content thee. To enjoy 
Is to begin to perish. \Vhat is bliss. 
But transit to some other state from this ? 

That, which we live for, must our life destroy. 



EPILOGUE. 2G9 

Hast thou not ever long'd for death ? If not, 
Not yet thy life's experience is attain'd. 

But if thy days be favour'd, if thy lot 

Be easy, if hope's summit thou hast o;ain'd, 

Die ! Death is the sole future left to thee. 
The knowledge of this life is bound, for each. 
By his own powers. Death lies between our 
reach 

And all which, living, we have lived to be. 

Death is no evil, since it comes to all. 

For evil is the exception, not the law. 
What is it in the tempest that doth call- 

Our spirits down its pathways > or the awe 
Of that abyss and solitude beneath 

High mountain passes, which doth aye attract 

Such strange desire V or in the cataract V 
The sea ? It is the sentiment of death. 

If life no more than a mere seeming be. 
Away with the imposture ! If it tend 

To nothing, and to have lived seemingly 
Prove to be vain and futile in the end. 

Then let us die, that we may really live, 
Or cease to feign to live. Let us possess 
Lasting delight, or lasting rpiictness. 

What life desires, death, only death, can give. 

Where are the violets of vanisht years ? 

The sunsets Rachel watch'd by Laban's well ? 
Where is Fideie's face V where Juliet's tears V 

There comes no answer. There is none to tell 
What we go (|uestioning, till our mouths are stopt 

By a clod of earth. Ask of the plangent sea, 

The wild wind wailing thro' the leafless tree. 
Ask of the meteor from the midnight dropt ! 

Come, Death, and l)ring the beauty back to all ! 
I do not seek thee, but I will not shun. 



270 THE WANDERER. 

And let tliy coming be at even-tall, 

Thy pathway thro' the setting of the sun. 

And let us go together, I witli thee, 

What time the lamps in Eden bowers are lit. 
And Melancholy, all alone, doth sit 

Bv the wide mariie of some neglected sea. 



PART II. 

One hour of English twilight once again ! 

Lo I in the rosy regions of the dew 
The conliiivs of the world begin to wane. 

And Ilesper doth his trembling lamp renew. 
Now is the inauguration of the night ! 

Nature's release to wearied earth and skies ! 

Sweet truce of Care ! Labour's brief aruiisiice ! 
Best, loveliest interlude of dark and light ! 

The rookery, babbling in the sunken wood ; 

The watchdog, barking from the distant farm ; 
The dim light tading from the horned tlood. 

That winds the woodland in its silver arm; 
The mass'd, and inunemorial oaks, whose leaves 

Are husht in yonder heathy dells below ; 

The fragrance of the meadows that I know ; 
The bat, that now his wavering circle weaves 

Around these antiipie towers, and casements deep 

That glimmer, thro' the ivy and the rose, 
To the faint moon, which doth begin to creep 

Out of the inmost heart o' the heavens' ?'epose, 
To wander, all night long, without a sound, 

Above the fields my feet oft wander'd once ; 

The larches tall and dark, which do ensconce 
The little churchyard, in whose hallow'd ground 

Sleep half the simple friends my childhood knew: 
All, all the sounds and sights of this blest hour, 



EPILOGUE. 271 

Sinking within my heart of hearts, like dew, 
Revive that so long parcht and drooping flower 

Of youth, the world's hot breath for many years 
Hath burn'd and wither'd ; till once more, once 

more. 
The revelation and the dream of yore 

Return to solace these sad eyes with tears ! 

AVhere now, alone, a solitary man, 

I pace once more the pathways of my home, 

Light-hearted, and together, once we ran, 
I, and the infant guide that used to roam 

With me, the meads and meadow-banks among, 
At dusk and dawn. How light those little feet 
Danced thro' the dancing grass, and waving 
wheat, 

Where'er, far off, we heard the cuckoo's song ! 

I know now, little Ella, what the flowers 

Said to you then, to make your cheek so ])ale ; 

And why the blackbird in our laurel bowers 
Spake to you, only ; and the poor, pink snail 

Fear'd less your steps than those of the May- 
shower. 
It was not strange these creatures loved you so, 
And told you all. 'Tvvas not so long ago 

You were, yourself, a bird, or else a flower. 

And, little Ella, you were pale, because 

So soon you were to die. I know that now. 

And why there ever seem'd a sort of gauze 

Over your deep blue eyes, and sad young brow. 

You were too good to grow up, Ella, you, 
And be a woman such as I have known I 
And so upon your heart they put a stone. 

And left you, dear, amongst the flowers and dew. 

God's will is good. He knew what would be best. 
I will not weep thee, darling, any more ; 



'J t 'Z T 1 1 E W A N D i: H K H . 

I have not wept thee ; tho' mv heart, opprcst 
AVith many memories, ibr thy sake is sore. 

God's will is ijoocl, and great His wisilom is. 
Thou wast a little star, and thou didst shine 
Upon my eiaille ; but thou wast not mine. 

Thou wast not mine, my darling ; thou art His. 

IMy morning star ! twin sister of my soul ! 

^ly little eltiu friend from Fairy-Land ! 
AVhose memory is yet innoceiU of the whole 

Of that whieh makes me doubly need thy hand. 
Thy little guiding hand so soon withdrawn I 

Here where I lind so little like to thee. 

For thou wert as tiie breath of dawn to me, 
Starry, anil pure, and brief as is the dawn. 

Thy knight was I, and thou my Fairy Queen. 

('Twas in the days of loye ami ohivali'y !) 
And thou didst hide thee in a bower of green. 

But thou so well hast hidden thee, that 1 
Have never found thee since. And thou didst 
set 

Many a task, and tjuest, and high enijirise. 

Ere I should win my guerdon from thine eyes, 
So many, and so many, that not yet 

My tasks are emled or my wanderings o'er. 

But some ilay thou wilt send across the main 
A nuigic bark, and I shall quit this shore 

Of care, and iind thee, in thy bower, again ; 
And thou wilt say " ^ly brother, hast thou found 

Our home, at last V "... Whilst I, in answer, 
Sweet. 

Shall heap my life's last booty at thy feet. 
And bare my breast with many a bleeding wound. 

The spoils of time I the trophies of the world I 
The keys of conquer'd towns, and eaptived 
kings ; 



EPILOGUE. 273 

And many a broken sword, and banner furl'd ; 

The heads of giants, and swart Soldan's rings ; 
And many a maiden's scarf; and many a wand 

Of baffled wizard ; many an amulet ; 

And many a shield, with mine own heart's blood 
wet ; 
And jewels, dear, from many a distant land I 

God's will is good. He knew what would be best. 

I thought last year to pass away from life. 
I thought my toils were ended, and my quest 

Completed, and my part in this world's strife 
Accomplisht. And, behold ! about me now 

There rest the gloom, the glory, and the aAve 

Of a new martyrdom, no dreams foresaw ; 
And the thorn-crown hath blossom'd on my brow. 

A martyrdom, but with a martyr's joy ! 

A hope I never hoped for ! and a sense 
That nothing henceforth ever can destroy : — 

Within my breast the serene confidence 
Of mercy in the misery of things ; 

Of meaning in the mystery of all ; 

Of blessing in whatever may befall ; 
Of rest predestined to all wanderings. 

How sweet, with thee, my sister, to renew. 

In lands of light, the search for those bright birds 

Of plumage so ethereal in its hue. 

And music sweeter than all mortal words. 

Which some good angel to our childhood sent 
With messages from Paradisal flowers, 
So lately left, the scent of Eden bowers 

Yet linger'd in our hair, where'er we went ! 

Now, they are all fled by, this many a year, 
Adown the viewless valleys of the wind, 

And never more will cross this hemisphere, 
Those birds of passage ! Never shall I find, 
18 



t>74 TlIK WAISDKUER. 

Dropt iVoiu the lli^lit, vou followM, doar, !^o tar 
'J'hat yon will nevor conic ai>ain, I know, 
One phnnclct on the ])atlis by which I <io, 

INIissing thy light there, O luy morning ^lar ! 

Sott, over all, doth ancient twilight cast 
Her ilini gray robe, vagne as futurity, 

And sail and hoary as the ghostly past, 
Till earth assunies invisibility. 

1 hear the night-bird's note, wherewith she starts 
The bee within the blossom from his dream, 
A light, like hope, fron\ yonder pane doth beam, 

And now, like hope, it silently departs. 

llnsh ! from the cloi'k within yon dark church spire, 
Another hour broke, clanging, out t)f time, 

And pass'd me, throbbing like my own desire, 
Into the sevenfold heavens. And now, the chime 

Over the vale, the woodlantl, and the river, 
More faint, more far, a ipiivering echo, strays 
From that small twelve-hour'd circle of our days, 

Ami spreails, and spreads, to the great round, For- 
ever. 

Tensive, the sombre ivied j)(Mv1i I pass. 

Thro' the dark hall, the sound of my own feet 
Pursues me, like the ghost of what 1 was. 

Into this silent chand>er, where 1 meet 
From wall to wall the fathers of my race ; 

The jMctures of the })ast from wall to wall ; 

AVandering o'er which, my wistful glances fall, 
To sink, at last, on little Ella's face. 

This is my hon\e. And liither I return. 
After much wandering in the ways of men, 

"NVcary but not outworn. Here, with her urn 
iShall Memory come, and be my denizen. 

And blue-eyed Hope shall through the window 
look, 



KI'ILOGUE. 275 

And lean her fair ehild's face into the room, 
Wliat time the hawthorn buds anew, and Ijloom 
The bright forget-me-nots beside the brook. 

Father of all which is, or yet may be, 

Ere to the pillow which my childhood prest 

This night restores my troubhnl ]>rows, by Thee 
May this, the last prayer I have learn'd, be 
blest ! ^ 

Grant me to live that I may need from life 
No more than life hath given me, and to die 
That T may give to death no more than I 

Have long abandon'd. And, if toil and strife 

Yet in the portion of my days must be, 

Firm b(^ my faith, and (juiet be my heart ! 
That so my work may with my will agree. 

And strength be mine to calmly fill my part 
In Nature's purpose, questioning not the end. 

For love is more than raiment or than food. 

Shall I not take the evil with the good ? 
Blessed to me be all which thou dost send ! 

Nor blest the least, recalling what hath been, 
The knowledge of the evil I have known 

Without me, and within me. Since, to lean 
Upon a strength far mightier than my own 

Such knowledge brought me. In whose strength 
I stand. 
Firmly upheld, even tho', in ruin hurl'd. 
The fix'd foundations of this rolling world 

Should top[)le at the waving of Thy hand. 



PART III. 

IIatl thou ! sole Muse that, in an age of toil, 
Of all the old Uranian sisterhood, 



276 THE WANDERER. 

Art left to light us o'er the furrow'd soil 
Of this laborious star ! Muse, unsubdued 

By that strong hand which hath in ruin raz'd 
The temples of dread Jove ! Muse most divine, 
Albeit but ill by these pale lips of mine, 

In days degenerate, first named and praised ! 

Now the high airy kingdoms of the day 
Hyperion holds not. The disloyal seas 

Have broken from Poseidon's purple sway. 
Thro' Heaven's harmonious golden palaces 

No more the silver sandal'd messengers 
Slide to sweet airs. Upon Olympus' brow 
The gods' great citadel is vacant noAV. 

And not a lute to Love in Lesbos stirs. 

But thou wert born not on the Forked Hill, 
Nor fed from Hybla's hives by Attic bees. 

Nor on the honey Cretan oaks distil, 

Or once distill'd, when gods had homes in trees. 

And young Apollo kncAv thee not. Yet thou 
With Ceres wast, when the pale mother trod 
The gloomy pathway to the nether god. 

And spake with that dim Power which dwells below 

The surface of whatever, where he wends, 
The circling sun illumineth. And thou 

Wast aye a friend to man. Of all his friends, 
Percliance the friend most needed : needed now 

Yet more than ever ; in a complex age 

W^hich changes while we gaze at it : from heaven 
Seeking a sign, and finding no sign given. 

And questioning Life's worn book at every page. 

Nor ever yet, was song, untaught by thee. 
Worthy to live immortally with man. 

Wherefore, divine Experience, bend on me 

Thy deep and searching eyes. Since life began, 

Meek at thy mighty knees, tho' oft reproved, 



EPILOGUE. 277 

I have sat, spelling out slow time with tears, 

Where down the riddling alphabet of" years, 

Thy guiding finger o'er the horn-book moved. 

And I have put together many names : 

Sorrow, and Joy, and Hope, and Memory, 

And Love, and Anger ; as an infant frames 
The initials of a language wherein he 

In manhood must with men communicate. 
And oft, the words were hard to understand, 
Harder to utter ; still the solemn hand 

Would pause, and point, and wait, and move, and 
wait ; 

Till words grew into language. Language grew 
To utterance. Utterance into music pass'd. 

I sang of all I leani'd, and all I knew. 
And, looking upward in thy face, at last. 

Beheld it tlusht, as when a mother hears 
Her infant feebly singing his first hymn, 
And dreams she sees, albeit unseen of him, 

Some radiant listener lured from other spheres. 

Such songs have been my solace many a while 

And oft, when other solace I had none. 
From grief which lay heart-broken on a smile, 

And joy that glitter'd like a winter sun, 
And froze, and fever'd : from the great man's 
scorn. 

The mean man's envy; friends' unfriendliness ; 

Love's want of human kindness, and the stress 
Of nights that hoped for nothing from the morn. 

From these, and worse than these, did song unbar 
A refuge thro' the ivory gate of dreams, 

Wherein my spirit grew familiar 

With spirits that glide by spiritual streams ; 

Song hath, for me, unseal'd the genii sleeping 
Under mid seas, and lured out of their lair 



278 THE WANDERER. 

Beings with wondering eyes, and wondrous hair, 
Tame to my feet at twilight softly creeping. 

And song hath been my cymbal in the hours 
Of triumph ; when behind me, far away. 

Lay Egypt, with its plagues ; and, by strange 
powers, 
Not mine, upheld, life's heaped ocean lay 

On either siile a ])assage for my soul. 
A passage to the Land of Promise ! trod 
By giants, where the chosen race of God 

Shall find, at last, its long predestin'd goal. 

The breath which stirr'd these songs a little while 

Has tieeted by ; and, with it, ileeted too 
The days I sought, thus singing, to beguile 

Of thoughts that spring like weeds, which will 
creep thro' 
The blank interstices of ruin'd fines. 

Where Youth, adoring, sacrificed — its heart, 

To gods forever fallen. 

Now, we part. 
My songs and I. We part, and what remains ? 

Perchance an echo, and perchance no more. 
Harp of my heart, from thy brief music dwells 

In hearts, unknown, afar: as the wide shore 
Retains within its hundred hollow shells 

The voices of the spirits of the foam. 

Which murmur in the language of the deeps, 
Tho' haply far away, to one who keeps 

Such ocean wealth to grace an inland home. 

Within these cells of song, how frail soe'er, 
The vast and wandering tides of human life 

Have murmur'd once ; and left, in passing, there, 
Faint echoes of the tumult and the strife 

Of the great ocean of humanity. 

Fairies have danced within these hollow caves. 



EPILOGUE. 279 

And Memory mused above the moonlit Avaves, 
And Youth, the lover, here hath linger'd by. 

I sung of life, as life would. have me sing, 

Of falsehood, and of evil, and of wrong; 
For many a false, and many an evil thing, 

1 found in life: and by my life my song 
Was shaped within me while I sung: I sung 

Of Good, for good is life's predestin'd end; 

Of Sorrow, for 1 knew her as my friend ; 
Of Love, for by his hand my harp was strung. 

I have not scrawl'd above the tomb of Youth 
Those lying epitaphs, which represent 

All virtues, and all excellence, save truth. 
'Twere easy, thus, to have been eloquent, 

If I had held the fashion, of the age 

AVhich loves to hear its sounding flattery 
Blown by all dusty winds from sky to sky, 

And find its praises blotting avery page. 

And yet, the Poet and the Age are one. 

And if the age be flaw'd, howe'er minute, 
Deep thro' the poet's heart that rent doth run, 

And shakes and mars the music of his lute. 
It is not that his symj)athy is less 

With all that lives and all that feels around 
him, 

But that so close a sympathy hath bound him 
To these, that he must utter their distress. 

We build the bridge, and swing the wondrous wire, 
Bind with an iron hoop the rolling world; 

Sport with the spirits of the ductile fire; 

And leave our spells upon the vapour furl'd ; 

And cry — Behold the progress of the time ! 
Yet are we tending in an unknown land. 
Whither, we neither ask nor understand. 

Far from the peace of our unvalued prime ! 



280 TJIK AVAISDKKKK. 

Alul Strongtli and Foive, tl>e lieiuls which minister 
To sonic now-risen J^ower beyond our s[vvn, 

On either hand, with hook and nail, conior 
To rivet the Promethean heart of man 

Under tlie raveninji- and relenthv^s beak 
Ot" nnappeasable Desire, wliieh yet 
The very vitals of the age (Uith fret. 

The hmbs are miiihty, but the heart is weak. 

"Writhe on, rrometheus! or whate'er thou art, 
Thou giant sulVerer, groaning for a, rai'c 

Thou canst not save, for all thy bleeding heart ! 
Thy wail my harp hath waken'd; and my place 

Shall be beside thee ; and my blessing be 
On all that makes me worthy yet to share 
Thy lonely martyrdom, anil with thee wear 

That crown of anguish given to })oets, and thee! 

If to have wept, and wildly ; to have loved 

Till love grew torture ; to have grieved till grief 

Became a i)art of life ; if to have jn-oved 
The want of all things ; if, to draw relief 

Fi'om j)oesy tor passion, this avail, 

1 lack no title to my crown. The sea 
Hath sent up nymphs lor my siK'iety, 

The mountains have been moved to hear my 
wail. 

Nature and man were children long ago 

In glad simplicity of heart and s[)eech. 
Now they are strangers to each other's woe; 

And each hath language iliHerent from each. 
The simplest songs sound sweetest, and most good. 

The simplest loves arc the most loving ones. 

Happier were song's forefathers than their sons. 
And Homer sung as Byron never could. 

But Homer cannot come again : nor ever 
The quiet of the age in which he sung. 



KIM 1,00 CK. 281 

TliiH a^'O is one of" tninult and endeavour, 
And by a fevet'd liand its liar[)S are strung. 

And yet, I do not (|uarrel witli the time; 
Nor (juarrel with the tumidt of my lieart, 
Wliieh of the tumidt of tlic; a^^e is part; 

]5(;eause its very weakru^ss is sublime. 

■^rhe passions are as winds on tlie wide sea 
Of Innnan life; whieli do impvA the sails 

CM" man's gnvit enterprise, Avliat(^'er tliat be. 

The reckless helmsman, (;au^dit upon these gales, 

Under the roaring gulfs go(;s down aghast. 
The prudent ])ilot to the; stearlying breeze 
Spandy gives h(;ad ; and, over perilous S(!a9, 

]Jio[)S anchor 'mid the Fortunate Jsles, at last. 

W(; pray against the t<jmpest and th(; strife. 

The storm, the whirlwind, and the troublous hour, 

Which v(!x the fretful (dciment of life. 

Me rather save, O <lrea(] disposing Power, 

From those dead calms, that flat and hopcdess lull, 
In whieli the dull sea rots around the bark, 
An(f nothing moves save the sure-creeping 
dark, 

I'hat slowly settles o'er an idle hull. 

For in the storm, the tumult, and the stir 

That shak(;s the soul, man finds his power and 
place 
Among the elements. Dt^eps with deeps confer. 

And Nature's secnjt settles in lier face. 
Let ocean to his inmost caves b(; stirr'd ; 

J,.et the wild light be smitten from the cloud. 

The decks may reel, the masts be snapt and 
l)ow'd, 
]>ut (iod halh spoken out, and man hath heard ! 

Farewell, you lost inhabitants of my mind, 
You fair cphemerals of faded hours ! 



282 THE WAXDKKER. 

Farowoll, YOU lands of exile, whence each wind 
Of nieniorv steals with fragrance over flowers ! 

Farewell Cordelia ! Ella ! . . . But not so 
Farewell the memories of you which I have 
Till stranjicrs shall be sitting on my jiravo 

And babbling of the dust which lies below. 

Blessed the man whose life, how sad soc'er, 

I lath felt the preseni'e, and yet keeps the trace 

Of one pure woman ! With religious care 

We close the doors, with reverent feet we pace 

The vacant chambers, where, of yore, a Queen 
()nc night hath rested. From my Past's pale walls 
Yet gleam the unlatled fair nuunorials 

Of her whose beauty tliere, awhile, hath been. 

She pass'd into my youth, at its night-time, 

When low the lamplight, and the music husht. 

She pass'd, and ])ass\l away. Some broken rhyme 
Scrawl'd on the panel or the pane : the crusht 

And faded rose she dropp'd : the page she turn'd 
And finish'd not : the ribbon or the knot 
That Ihitter'd from her . . . Stranger, harm them 
not ! 

I keep these sacred relics nndiscern'd. 

Men's truths are often lies, and women's lies 

Often the setting of a truth most tender 
In an unconscious jiocsy. The child cries 

To clutch the star that lights its rosy spleiulour 
In airy Edens of the west afar. 

"Ah, folly ! " sighs the father, o'er his book. 

" JNIillions of miles above thy foolish nook 
Of infantile desire, the llesperus-star 

" Descends not, child, to twinkle on thy cot." 
Then readjusts his blind-wise spectacles, 

W^hile tears to sobs are changing, were it not 
The mother, with those tender syllables 



EPILOGUE. 283 

Wlii<h t!vcn Dutch mofhors oan make musical too, 
Miirrmirs, " Slc('i), slcc'[) my little one ! and I 
Will pluck thy star for thee, and by and bye 

Lay It upon thy pillow bright with dew." 

And the child .sleej)s, and dreams of stars whose 

llnht 

I>(Uims in his own bri;);ht eyes when he awakes. 
So sle(!p ! so dream ! jf auf^ht I read aright 

That star, {)oor l)abe, whi('h o'er thy cradle shakes, 
Thy fate may fall, in after years, to be 

That other child that, like thee, loves the star, 

And, like thee, weeps to find it all so far, 
Feelin^i; its force in his nativity : — 

That other infant, all as weak, as wild. 

As f)assionate, and as li('l[)less, as thou art. 
Whom men will call a Poet (]*oet, or child, 

Th(; star is still so distant from the heart !) 
If so, heaven rjrant that thou may'st find at last, 

Since such there are, some Avoman, whose sweet 
smile, 

Pityinjr, may thy fond fan(;y yet beguile 
To dream the star, which thou hast sought, thou 
hast ! 

For m(!n, if thou shouldst heed what they may say, 
Will break thy heart, or leave thee, like them- 
selv(!s 

No heart for breaking. Wherefore I do pray 
My book may lie upon no learned shelves. 

But that in some (le(!p summer eve, perchance. 
Some woman, melancholy-eyed, and pale. 
Whose heart, like mine, hath suffered, may this 
tale 

Head by the soft light of her own romance. 

Go forth over the wide world. Song of mine ! 
As Noah's dove out of his bosom flew 



284 THE WANDKKKH. 

C)vor llio (losiolate, vast, and Avanderinp; brine. 
Seok thou thy nest afar. Thy plaint renew 

From lieart to heart, and on from hind to hand 
Fly boldly, till thou find that unknown friend 
Whose taee, in dreams, above my own doth bend. 

Then (ell that s})irit, what it will untlerstand, 

AVhy men ean tell to strangers all the tale 

From friends reserved. And tell that spirit, my 
Song, 

AVheretbre I have not talter'd to unveil 
The eryj)lic' fi)rms ol" error and of wrong. 

And say, I snlVer'd more rhau I reeoi-ded, 

'J'hat eai'h man's life is all men's lesson. Say, 
And let the world believe thee, as it may, 

Thy tale is true, however weakly worded. 



CLYTEMNESTRA, 

THE EARL'S RETURN, THE ARTIST, 
AND OTHER POEMS. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



Agamemnon. 

iEciSTHUS. 

Okestes. 
Phocian. 
Herald. 



Clytemnestra. 
Electra. 
Cassandra. 
'Chorus. 



Scene. — Before the Palace of Agamemnon in Argos. Tro- 
phies, amongst which, the shield of Agamemnon, on the wall. 

Time, Morning. The action continues till Sunset. 

I. CLYTEMNESTRA. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Morning at last ! at last the lingering day 

Creeps o'er the dewy side of yon dark world. 

O dawning light already on the hills ! 

O universal earth, and air, and thou, 

First freshness of the east, which art a breath 

Breath'd from the rapture of the gods, who bless 

Almost all other prayers on earth but mine ! 

Wherefore to me is solacing sleep denied ? 

And honourable rest, the right of all ? 

So that no medicine of the slumbrous shell, 

Brimm'd with divinest draughts of melody, 

Nor silence under dreamful canopies, 

Nor purple cushions of the lofty couch 

May lull this fever for a little while. 

Wherefore to me — to me, of all mankind, 



l'^^ IM.Y IKMNKSTK V. 

This retribution tor a doed umloiio ? 

For many nion outlive their ;;uui of orinies. 

And oat. ami drink, and Htl up thankt'ul hands, 

And take their rest seenrely in tlie dark. 

An\ I not innoeent — or more than those ? 

There is no blot ot* nuirder on my brow, 

Nor any taint of blood upon my robe. 

— It is the thought I it is the thouiiht ! . . . and men 

Judge us by aots ! . . as tho' one tliunder-elap 

Let all Olympus out. l"nq\net heart, 

111 fares it with thee siuee, ten sad vears past, 

In one wild hour of unaoijuainted loy 

Thou didst set wide thy lonely bridal doors 

For a forbidden guest to enter in ! 

Last night, methought ]iale Helen, with a frown, 

Swept by me. nnirmuring, " I — sueh as thou — 

A Queen in Cireece— weak-hearted (woe is me I) 

Allured by love — did, in an evil hour. 

Fall oil' tVom duty. Sorrow eame. Beware I "* 

And then, in sleep, there passM a baleful band — 

The ghosts of all the slaughterM under Troy, 

From this side Styx, who cried, " For sueh a erime 

'• We tell tVoui our fair palaees on earth, 

'* And waniler, starless, here. For sueh a erime 

*' A tjaousand ships were launeh'd, and tumbled 

down 
•' The topless towers of llion. tho' they rose 
" To magle inusie, in the time of Gods I" 
With sueh fierce thoughts for evermore at war, 
A'ext not alone by hankering -wild regrets 
Hut fears, yet worse, of that which soon must come. 
My heart waits armM, and from the citailel 
Oi' its high sorrow, sees tar otV dark shapes. 
And hears the tootsteps ot' Necessity 
Tread near, and nearer, hand in hand with Woe. 
La>t night the tlaming Herald warning urged 
Up all the hills — small time to pause and plan I 
Counsel is weak : and much remains to do. 
That Aiiamcumon, and, if else remain 



CLYTEM.VEKTUA. 289 

Oi' thai <in(]\ir\u<^ hand who sail'd for Troy 
Tijn years aj^o (arwl Koinc sail'd Lotlie-ward), 
Find us not unprepared for their return. 

Jiut — hark ! I hear tlie tread of nimble f(;et 
'i'hat sound tliis way. 'J'he risinj^ town is pour'd 
About th(} festive altars of the (iods, 
And from the heart of the j^reat Af^ora, 
Le,ts out its (gladness for tliis last ni^^ht's news. 
— All, so it is ! Insidious, sly Kfiport, 
Soundinf^ olWique, lik(; Loxian oraeles, 
Tells double-tongued (and with the self-.same 

voi(ie !) 
To some new gladness, new despair to some. 



II. CIIOKUS AND CLYTEMNESTRA. 



O dearest Lady, daughter of Tyndarus ! 
With purple flowers we eome, and offerings — 
Oil, and wine ; and eakes of honey, 
Sfjothing, unadulterate; tapestries 
Woven by white Argive maidens, 
(jlod-desc-ended (wovciu only 
For the homeward feet of Ileroes) 
To eehibrate this glad intelligcinee 
AVhieh last night the fiery courier 
Brought us, posting up froiri Ilion, 
VVluMjl'd above the dusky circle 
Of the hills from lighted Ida. 
I^'or now (Troy lying extinguislit 
Underneath a mighty Woe) 
Our King and chief of men, 
Agamemnon, returning 
(And with him the hope of Argos), 
Shall worship at the Tutelary Altars 
Of their dear native land: 
In the Fane of ancient Here, 
19 



290 CLYTEMNESTKA. 

Or tlie great Lyea^an God ; 
Immortally orownM with reverend honour! 
But tell us ■wherefore, O godlike Avoman, 
Having a lofty trouble in your eye, 
You walk alone with loosened tresses ? 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

Shall the ship toss, and yet the holm not heave ? 
Shall they drowse sitting at the lower oars, 
When those that hold the middle benches wake '? 
He that is yet sole eye of all our state 
Shining not here, shall ours be shut in dreams? 
But haply you (thrice happy I) prove not this, 
The curse of Queens, and worse than widow'd 

wives — 
To wake, and hear, all night, the wandering gnat 
Sing thro' the silent chambers, while Alarm, 
In place of Slumber, by the haunted couch 
Stands sentinel ; or when from coast to coast 
Wails the night-wandering wind, or when o'er 

heaven 
Bootes hath unleash'd his fiery hounds, 
And Night her glittering camps hath set, and lit 
Her watch-fires thro' the silence of the skies, 
— To count ill chances in the dark, and feel 
Deserteil pillows wet with tears, not kisses, 
AVhere kisses once fell. 

But now Expectation 
Stirs up such restless- motions of the blood 
As sufier not my lids to harbour sleep. 
AVherefore, O belovM companions, 
I wake betimes, and wander up and down. 
Looking toward the distant hill-tops. 
From whence shall issue fair fulfilment 
Of all our tert-years' hoping. For, behold ! 
Troy being captiv'd, we shall see once more 
Those whom we loved in days of old. 
Yet some will come not from the Phrygian shore, 
But there lie weltering to the surf and wind ; 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 291 

Exil'd from day, in darkness blind, 

Or having; crost unhappy Styx. 

And some who left us full of vjfTorous youth 

Shall greet us now fjray-hcaded men. 

But if our eyes behold ajrain 

Our lonfj-expeeted ehief, in truth, 

Fortune for us hath thrown the Treble Six. 

CHOIiUS. 

By us, indeed, these things are also wisht. 
Wherefore, if now to this great son of Atreus 
(Having surviv'd the woful walls of Troy), 
With us, once more, the Gods permit to stand 
A glad man by the pillars of his hearth. 
Let his dear life henceforth be such wherein 
The Third Libation often shall be pour'd. 

CLYTEMNESTIIA. 

And let his place be number'd with the Gods, 
Who overlook the world's eternal walls, 
Out of all reach of sad calamities. 

CHOltUS. 

It is not well, I think, that men should set 
Too near the Gods any of mortal kind : 
But brave men are as Gods upon the earth. 

CLYTEMNKSTKA. 

And whom Death daunts not, these are truly brave. 

CHORUS. 

But more than all I reckon that man blest, 
Who, having sought Death nobly, finds it not. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Except he find it where he does not seek. 

CHORUS. 

You speak in riddles. 



292 CLYTEMXESTKA. 



olytk:mnf.stha. 



For so Wisdom speaks. 
But now do you with oarlands wreathe the altars, 
While I, witliin, the House prepare. 
That so our King, at his returning, 
AV^ith his golden Armament, 
Find us not, unaware 
Ot" the greatness ot" the event. 

cnoiu's. 
Soon shall we see the taces that we loved. 
Brother onee more elasping brother. 
As in the untbrgotten ilays : 
And heroes, meeting one another 
(Men by glorious toils approved) 
Where ojiee they roved. 
Shall rove again the old familiar ways. 
And they that from the distanee eome 
Shall feed their hearts with tales of home; 
And tell the famous story of the war, 
llumour'd sometime from afar. 
Now shall these again behold 
The aneient Argos; and the grove 
Long since trod 

By the frenzied ehild of Inaehus ; 
And the Forum, tamed of old. 
Of the wolf-destroying God ; 
And the opulent Myeivna), 
Home of the Pelopidtv, 
AVhile they rove with those they love. 
Holding pleasant talk Avith us. 
how gloriously they went, 
• That avenging Armament ! 
As tho' Olympus in her womb 
No longer did entomb 
The greatness of a bygone world — 
Gods and godlike men — 
But cast them forth aiiain 



CLYTEMXESTRA. 293 

To frighten Troy : such storm was hurl'd 

On her devoted towers 

I>y the retributive Deity, 

AVhosoe'er he be 

Of the Immortal Powers — 

Or mad'ning Pan, if he chastise 

His Shepherd's Phrygian treacheries ; 

Or vengeful Loxias ; or Zeus, 

Anger'd for the sliame and abuse 

Of a great man's hospitaHty. 

As wide as is Olympus' span 

Is the power of the high Gods ; 

Who, in their gohlen blest abodes 

See all things, looking from the sky ; 

And Heaven is hard to pacify 

For the Avickedness of man. 

My heart is fill'd with vague forebodings, 

And opprest by unknown terrors 

Lest, in the light of so much gladness, 

Kise the shadow of ancient wrong. 

O Diemon of the double lineage 

Of Tantalus; and the Pleisthenidae, 

Inexorable in thy mood. 

On the venerable threshold 

Of the ancient House of Pelops 

Surely is enough of blood ! 

Wherefore does my heart misgive me ? 

Wherefore comes this doubt to grieve me ? 

O, may no Divine Envy 

Follow home the Argive army, 

Being vext for things ill-done 

In wilful pride of stubborn war, 

Long since, in the distant lands ! 

May no Immortal wrath pursue 

Our dear King, the Light of Argos, 

For the unhappy sacrifice 

Of a daughter ; working evil 

In the dark heart of a woman ; 



21>4 n.YTKMXKSTUA. 

Or somo hdiisohoKl tro.ii'hory. 
Ami a ouiNo iVoiu kiiulrcd lianJs 



111. ri.Y IKMNKSTKA. 

tLYTKMMCSTKA. 

[ Iiteiittrin(/ fi-oin the fioust\ 

To-morrow . . . ay, what it' to-day ? . . . Well — 

thou ? 
Wiiy, it" thoso tonoiu's of Ihimo, with whioh last night 
The laiul was oUniiuMit, spoko I'ortaiii truth, 
l>y this })erclwuu'o thro' green Sarouic rocks 
Those hlaek ships glide . . . perchance . . . well, 

what's to tear V 
'Twere well to dare the worst — to know the end — 
Pio soon, or live seeure. \V hat's left to atld 
To years ot' nights like those whieh I have known ? 
Shall 1 shrink now to meet one little hour 
Whieh I have dareil to contemplate for years? 
l>y all the Cuids, not so! 'J'he end crowns all, 
Whieh if we fail to seize, that's also lost 
Which went before : as who would lead a host 
Thro' desolate ilry places, yet return 
In sight of kingdoms, when the Cuxls are roused 
To mark the issue ? . . . Anil vet. vet — 

I think 
Three nights ago there nnist have been sea-storms. 
The wind was wiKl among the Palace towers : 
Far oil" upon the hideous Element 
1 know it huddleil up the petulant waves, 
Whose shajieless and bewihlering preci[)ices 
Led to the belly of Orcus . . . oh, to slip 
Into dark Lethe from a dizzy plank. 
When even the tunls are reeling on the poop! 
To di*own at night, and have no sepulchre ! — 
That were too horrible ! . . . yet it may be 
Some easy chance, that comes with little pain, 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 295 

Mi^ht rid me of the haunting of those eyes, 

And tliesc wild thoughts . . . To know he roved 

among 
His old companions in the Happy Fields, 
And rangi^l with heroes — I still innocent ! 
tSleej) would be natural then. 

Yet will the old time 
Never return ! never those pea(.'eful hours ! 
N(iver that careless heart ! and nevermore, 
Ah, nev(!rmore that laughter without pain ! 
IJut I, that languish for r(!pose, must fly it, 
Nor, save in daring, doing, taste of rest. 
Oh to have lost all these ! To have barter'd calm. 
And all the irr(;vocable wealth of youth. 
And gain'd . . . what? But this change had surely 

come. 
Even wen; all things other than they are. 
I blame mys(df o'(;rnmch, who should Ijlame time. 
And life's inevitabh; loss, and fate, 
And days grown loveli(!r in the retrospect. 
We change : wherefore look back ? The path to 

safety 
Lies forward . . . forward ever. 

[In pnsmifj toward the house, she recognizes the shield 
of Af/uvieiimon, and pauses before it. 

Ha! old shield, 
Hide up for shame that honest face of thine. 
Stare not so bluntly at us . . . Oh, this man ! 
Why sticks the thought of him so in my heart? 
If 1 had loved him once — if for one hour — 
Then were there treason in this falling off. 
But never did I feel this wretched heart 
Until it leap'd l)en(iath AOgisthus' eyes. 
Who could have so forecounted all from first ? 
From that flusht moinent when his hand in mine 
Rested a thought too long, a touch too kind, 
'Jo leave its pulse unwarm'd . . . but I remember 
I dream'd sweet dreams that night, and slept till 
dawn, 



296 CLYTEMNK8TUA. 

And Avoko witli ilntterin«js of a happy tliought, 
And felt, not worse, but bettor . , . and now . . . 

now ? 
When first a sti-anuo and novel tenderness 
(iuiver'd in these salt eyes, had one «aiil then 
" A bead of dew may drajj a delude down : " — 
In that first ptMislve i)ause, through wliieh I wateh'd 
Unwonted sadness on ^E<i;isthiis' brows, 
Had some one wliisper'd, " Ay, the summer-elond 
Comes first : the tempest tbllows." — 

Well, what's past 
Is past, rerehanee the worst's to tbllow yet. 
How thou art haekt, and hewn, and bniis'tl, old 

shield ! 
Was the whole edij;e of the war against one man ? 
But one thrust more upon this dexter ridge 
Had (piile eut thro' the double imnost hide. 
He nnist have stood to it well ! Oh, he was cast 
]' the mould of Titans : a magnificent man, 
AVilh head and shoulders like a (Jod's. Ho seem'd 
'J'oo brimful of this meny viiiorous life 
'I'o spill it all out at one stab o' the sword. 
Y(>tthat had help'd nnieh ill ... oh Destiny 
Makes cowards or makes culprits of ns all ! 
Ah, had some Trojan Aveapon . . . Fool ! fool ! fool ! 
Surely S(Mnetimes the unseen Eumenides 
Ho prompt our musing moods Avith Avieked hints, 
And lash ns tor our crimes ere Ave commit them. 
Here, rour.d this silver boss, he cut my name, 
Oiu'e — long ago: he cut it as he lay 
Tired out Avith braAvling pastimes — prone — his 

limbs 
At length diflused — his head droopt in my lap — 
His spear (lung by : ]^lectra by the hearth 
Sat Avith the young Orestes on her knee ; 
While he, Avith an old broken sword, hack'd out 
These crooked characters, and laugh'd to sec 
(SpraAvl'd from the unusetl strength of his large 

hands) 



CLYTKMNKSTRA. 297 

The marks make Cf.ytkmnksti{A. 

I low lie laii^rliM ! 
TlC^iisthus' hands an; smallcf. 

Yet I know 
That matrons envi(M] me my husband's strc'n;>;lh. 
And I renuMnher when h(i sticxh; amonj; 
'J'he Ar<rive crowd he; topi)'d tliem l)y a head, 
And tall men stood wide-eyed to look at him, 
WIk^-c his <ri'('at [)lnm('s w(Uit tossin<r n[) and down 
The l)ra/(Mi pi-ores di-awn ont n])on the sand. 
Wai- on his front was ^ravt^d, as on thy disk, 
Shield ! which he left to kec'p his nKMnory 
(Jrand in men's mouths : that some revered old man, 
Winning to this tlie eyes of onr hot youth, 
Might say, " 'Twas here, and here — this dent, and 

that— 
On such, and sueli a field (wliich we remember) 
That A<^amemnon, in the gi-eat old time, 
Held np the Battle." 

Now lie there, and rust! 
Thy uses all liavc end. Thy master's home 
Should iiarbour none but friends. 

O tri[)le brass, 
Iron, and oak ! tlic blows of blunderinj; men 
Clannr idly on you : what tool's strength is yours ! 
I*\)r, sur(dy, not tlu; adamantine tunic 
Of Ares, nor whoh; slu^Ils of blaziufi: plates. 
Nor ashen sp(^ar, nor all llie cumbrous coil 
Of seven bull's hides may ^uard the strongest king 
From one defenceless woman's (piiet hate. 

What noise was that ? Where can TEgisthusbeV 
TlOgisthus ! — my TlOgisthus ! . . . There again ! 
[joudi^r, and longer — from the Agora — 
A mighty shout: and now I see i' the air 
A rolling dust the wind blows near. TlOgisthus ! 
O much I fear . . . this wild-will'd race of ours 
Doth (!ver, like a young unbi-oken eolt, 
Chafe at the straijjhten'd bridle of our state — 



20S OLYTKMN KS TUA. 

It' thi'v sluMild liiul him loiio. irrosolnto, 
As is his wont. ... 1 know ho huks the oyo 
An»i t'ori'hoad whorowitli crownM Capacity 
-Vwos rasli KcbcUion baik. 

Auain tliat shout ! 
(lOils kooj^ .V.Lristhus sato ! niysclt' will trout 
This uovol storm. How my heart loajis to ilan<:;orI 
1 havo boon so louj); a |iiU>t on i-oui^h soas. 
Ami almost rudilorloss I 

() yot 'tis murh 
To t'ool a power, solf-oontroil, solf-assurod, 
l>ri(llini»- a glorious dauijor ! as whon ouo 
That knows tho nature of the elements 
tiuiiles some frail plank with sublime skill that 

wins 
rro<irt>ss trou\ all obstruetion ; and, erect, 
Looks lH>ld and t'ree (h>wn all the drippiui); stars, 
llcariuL;; the huuurv storm boom batlled. by. 
.Kiiisthus ! . . . hark I . . . .T.i;isthus ! . . . there . . . 

.Kuisthus ! 
1 would to all tho (uids 1 know hin\ sal'o ! 
Who counts this way, <iuidiji<>' his racing foot 
Safe to us, like a nimble I'harioteer? 



IV. cM.Y rKMXl.SlK'A. llKKAl.n. 



ei.Y ri.MNKSTUA. 

Now, gloom-bird ! are there prodigies about'? 
What new ill-thiuir sHMit thoo before '? 



O Queen— 
ei,\ rKMNKsruA. 

Speak, if thou hast a voice I I listen. 

niKAi.n. 

O Queen— 



CI.YTEMNESTIIA. 299 



CLYTEMNKSTIfA. 



Ilatli an ox trodden on tliy ton;.MU', V . . , Spnak 
then ! 

IlICIiALI). 

() Quoon (for haste hath oauj,dit away my breath), 
The Kin^ is coming. 

C'LV'/KMNKSTKA. 

8ay again — tlie King 
Is coming — 

1IKUAM>. 

Even now, the broad sea-fieMs 
Grow white with flocks of sails, and toward the 

west 
The slo[)ed liorizon teems with rising beaks. 

(•I.VrrCMNKSTJJA. 

The people know this V 

nKi:A[>i). 

Heard yon not the noise ? 
For soon as this wing'd news had toucht the gates 
The whole; land shouted in the sun. 

CI>YTKMNKSTI«A. 

So soon ! 
The tliought's outsped by the njality, 
And halts agape . . . the King — 

iiki:ai>o. 

How she is moved ! 
A noble woman ! 

CLYTEMNESTItA. 

Wherefore beat so fast, 
Thou foolish heart V 'tis not thy master — 



300 ci.ytp:mxkstua. 

HKRALP. 

Truly 
She looks all over A«ramemnoivs mate. 

ci.yte:mnesti{A. 
Destiny, Destiny ! The deed's half done. 

IIKKAI.P. 

She will not speak, save by that brooding eye 
Whose light is language. Some great thought, I 

see, 
^Mounts up the royal chambers of her blood, 
As a king mounts his palace ; holds high pomp 
In her Olympian bosom; gains her face, 
Possesses all her noble glowing cheek 
With sudden state ; and gathers grandly up 
Its slow majestic meanings in her eyes ! 

OLYTEMNESTltA. 

So quick this sudden joy hath taken us, 
I scarce can realize the sum of it. 
You say the King comes here — the King, my hus- 
band, 
Whom we have waited for ten years — O joy ! 
Pardon our seeming roughness at the first. 
Hope, that Avill often fawn npon des]mir 
And Hatter des])erate chances, when the event 
Falls at our feet, soon takes a querulous tone, 
And jealous of that perfect joy she guards 
(Lest the ambrosial fruit by some rude hand 
Be stol'n away from her, and never tasted), 
Barks like a lean watch-dog at all who come. 
But now do you, with what good speed you may, 
Make known this glad intelligence to all. 
Ourselves, within, as best befits a wife 
And woman, will prepare my husband's house. 
Also, I pray you, summon to our side 
Our cousin, A'gisthus. AVe ^^ould speak with him. 
AVe would that our own lips should be the first 



CLYTEMNKSTKA. 301 

To break these tidinirs to him ; so obtaining; 
New joy by sharing liis. And, for yourself, 
Receive our gratitude. For this great news 
liencefortli you hold our royal love in fee. 
Our fairest fortunes from this day I date, 
And to the House of Tantalus new honour. 



She's gone ! With what a majesty she fill'd 
The whole of space ! The statues of the Gods 
Are not so godlike. She has Here's eyes, 
And looks immortal ! 



V. CLYTEMNESTRA. CHORUS. 

CLYTKMNKSTHA {(IS slic ascends (he steps of the Palace). 

So . . . while on the verge 
Of some wild purpose we hang dizzily, 
AVeighing the danger of the leap below 
Against the danger of retreating steps, 
Upon a sudden, some forecast event, 
Issuing full-arm'd from Councils of the Gods, 
Strides to us, plucks us by the hair, and hurls 
Headlong pale conscience, to the abyss of crime. 
AVell — I shrink not. 'Tis but a leap in life. 
There's fate in this. Why is he here so soon ? 
The sight of whose abhorred eyes will add 
Whatever lacks of strength to this resolve. 
Away with shame ! I have had enough of it. 
What's here for shame V . . . the weak against the 

strong ? 
And if the Aveak be victor ? . . . what of that ? 
Tush! . . . there — my soul is set to it. AVhat need 
Of argument to justify an act 
Necessity compels, and must absolve ? 
1 have been at play with scruples — like a girl. 
Now they are all Hung by. I have talk'd with 

Crime 



302 CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Too long to play the prude. These thoughts have 

been 
Wild guests by night. Now I shall dare to do 
That which I did not dare to think . . . oh, now 
I know myself! Crime's easier than we dream. 



Upon the everlasting hills 
Throned Justice works, and waits. 
Between the shooting of a star. 
That falls unseen on summer nights 
Out of the bosom of the dark, 
And the magnificent march of War, 
Roll'd from angry lands afar 
Hound some doomed city-gates, 
Nothing is to her unknown ; 

Nothing unseen. 

Upon her hills she sits alone, 

And in the balance of Eternity 

Poises against the What-has-been 

The weight of What-shall-be. 

She sums the account of human ills. 

The great world's hoarded wrongs and rights 

Are in her treasures. She will mark, 

With inward-searching eyes sublime, 

The frauds of Time. 

The empty future years she fills 

Out of the past. All human wills 

Sway to her on her reacliless heights. 

Wisdom she teaches men, with tears. 
In the toilful school of years : 
Climbing from event to event. 
And, being patient, is content 
To stretch her sightless arms about, 
And find some human instrument. 
From many sorrows to work out 
Her doubtful, far, accomplishment. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 303 

Slie the two Atrida? sent 

Upon Ilion : being intent 

The hcapt-np wrath of" Heaven to move 

Against th(> faithless Phrygian crime. 

Them the Tlunuler-bii-d of Jove, 

Swooping sudden from above, 

Sunmion'd to fates subhme. 

She, being injured, for the sake 
Of her, the often-wedded wife 
(Too loved, and too adoring !) 
Many a brazen band did break 
In many a breathless battle-strife ; 
Many a noble life did take ; 
Many a headlong agony, 
Frenzied shout, and frantic cry. 
For Greek and Trojan storing. 
When, the spear in the onset being shiver'd, 
The reeling ranks were roU'd together 
Like mad waves mingling in windy weather, 
Dasht fearfully over and over each other. 
And the plumes of Princes were toss'd and thrust, 
And dragg'd about in the shameful dust; 
And the painful, panting breath 
Came and went in the tug of death : 
And the sinews were loosen'd, and the strong 

knees stricken : 
And the eyes began to darken and thicken : 
And the arm of the mighty and terrible quiver'd. 

O Love ! Love ! Love ! How terrible art thou ! 

How terrible ! 

Oh, what hast thou to do 

With men of mortal years, 

Who toil below, 

And have enough of griefs for tears to flow ? 

Oh, range in higher spheres ! 

Hast thou, O hast thou, no diviner hues 

To paint thy wings, but must transfuse 



304 CLYTEMNKSTllA. 

An Iris-liglit from tears ? 

For human hearts are all too -weak to l^old thee. 
And how, O Love, sliall human arms enfold thee ? 
There is a seal of sorrow on thy brow. 
There is a deadly fire in thy breath. 
AVith life thou lurest, yet thou givest death. 
O Love, the Cxods are weak by reason of" thee ; 
And many wars have been upon the earth. 
Thou art the sweetest source of saltest sorrov/s. 
Thy blest to-days bring such unblest to-morrows ; 
Thy softest ho})e makes saddest memory. 
Thou hadst destruction in thee from the birth ; 
Incomprehensible ! 

O Love, thy brightest bridal garments 

Are poison'd, like that robe of agonies 

Which Deianira wove for Hercules, 

And, being put on, turn presently to cerements ! 

Thou art unconquered in the fight. 

Thou rangest over land and sea. 

O let the tbolish nations be ! 

Keep thy divine desire 

To upheave mountains or to kindle fire 

From the frore frost, and set the world alight. 

Why make thy red couch in the damask cheek V 

Or light thy torch at languid eyes V 

Or lie entangled in soft sighs 

On pensive lips that will not speak ? 

To sow the seeds of evil things 

In the hearts of headstrong kings ? 

Preparing many a kindred strife 

For the fearful future hour ? 

O leave the wretched race of man, 

Whose days are but the dying seasons' span ; 

Vex not his painful life ! 

Make thy innnortal sport 

In Heaven's high court, 

And cope with Gods that are of equal power. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 305 



VI. ELECTRA. CHORUS. CLYTEMNESTRA. 

ELECTKA. 

Now is at hand the hour of retribution. 
For my father, at last returning, 
In great power, being greatly injur'd, 
Will destroy the base adulterer, 
And efface the shameful Past. 

CIIOKUS. 

O child of the Godlike Agamemnon ! 
Leave vengeance to the power of Heaven ; 
Nor forestall with impious footsteps 
The brazen tread of black Erinnys. 

KLECTRA. 

Is it, besotted with the adulterous sin, 

Or, as with flattery pleasing present power, 

Or, being intimidate, you speak these words ? 

ciioitus. 
Nay, but desiring justice, like yourself. 

ELECTRA. 

Yet Justice ofttimes uses mortal means. 

CHORUS. 

But flings aside her tools when work is done. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

dearest friends, inform me, went this way 
^gisthus ? 

CHORUS. 
Even now, hurrying hitherward, 

1 see him walk, with irritated eyes. 

20 



306 CLYTEMNESTRA. 

CLYTKMNESTRA. 

A reed may show which way the tempest blows. 
That face is pale — those brows are dark ... ah ! 



VII. yEGISTHUS. CLYTEMNESTRA. 

^EGISTHUS. 

Agamemnon — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

My husband . . . well ? 

.t:gisthus. 
(Whom may the great Gods curse !) 
Is scarce an hour hence. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Then that hour's yet saved 
From sorrow. Smile, xEgisthus — 



Plear me speak. 

CLYTE]MNESTRA. 

Not as your later wont has been to smile — 
Quick, fierce, as tho' you scarce could hurry out 
The wild thing fast enough ; for smiling's sake, 
As if to show you could smile, tho' in fear 
Of what might follow — but as first you smiled 
Years, years ago, when some slow loving thought 
Stole down your face, and settled on your Hps, 
As tho' a sunbeam halted on a rose 
And mix'd with franrrance, li<>ht. Can you smile 

still 
Just so, iEgisthus ? 

^GISTIIUS. 

These are idle words. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 307 

And like the wanderings of some fever'd brain : 
Extravagant phrases, void of import, wild. 

CLYTE3INESTKA. 

Ah, no ! you cannot smile so, more. Nor I ! 

.EGISTHUS. 

Ilark ! in an hour the King — 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

Hush ! listen now — 
I hear, far down yon vale, a shepherd piping 
Hard by his milk-white flock. The lazy things ! 
How quietly they sleep or feed among 
The dry grass and the acanthus there ! . . . and he, 
He hath flung his faun-skin by, and white ash-stick, 
You hear his hymn ? Something of Dryope, 
Faunus, and Pan ... an old wood tale, no doubt ! 
It makes me think of songs when 1 was young 
I used to sing between the valleys there. 
Or higher up among the red ash-berries. 
Where the goats climb, and gaze. Do you remember 
That evening when we linger'd all alone, 
Below the city, and one yellow star 
Shook o'er yon temple ? ... ah, and you said then 
" Sweet, should this evening never change to night, 
But pause, and pause, and stay just so — yon star 
Still steadfast — and the moon behind the hill. 
Still rising, never risen — would this seem strange ? 
Or should we say, ' why halts the day so late ? ' " 
Do you remember ? 

JEGISTHUS. 

Woman ! woman ! this 
Surpasses frenzy ! Not a breath of time 
Between us and the clutch of Destiny — 
Already sound there footsteps at our heels, 
Already comes a heat against our cheek. 
Already Angers cold among our hair. 



308 CLYTEMNESTRA. 

And you speak lightly thus, as tho' the day 
Linger'd toward nuptial hours ! . . . awake ! arouse! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I do wake . . . well, the King — 

^GISTHUS. 

Even while we speak 
Draws near. And we — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Must meet him. 

^EGISTHUS. 

Meet ? ay . . . how ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

As mortals should meet fortune — calmly. 

^GISTHUS. 

Quick ! 
Consult ! consult ! Yet there is time to choose 
The path to follow. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I have chosen it 
Long since. 

.EGISTHUS. 

How ?— 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Oh, have we not had ten years 
To ripen counsel, and mature resolve ? 
What's to add now ? 

^GISTHUS. 

I comprehend you not. 
The time Is plucking at our sleeve. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 309 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 

^gisthiis ! 
There shall be time for deeds, and soon enough, 
Let that come when it may. And it may be 
Deeds must be done shall shut and shrivel up 
All quiet thoughts, and quite preclude repose 
To the end of time. Upon this awful strait 
And promontory of our mortal life 
We stand between what was, and is not yet. 
The Gods allot to us a little space, 
Before the contests which must soon begin, 
For calmer breathing. All before lies dark 
And difficult, and perilous, and strange ; 
And all behind . . . What if we take one look, 
One last long lingering look (before Despair, 
The shadow of failure, or remorse, which often 
Waits on success, can come 'twixt us and it. 
And darken all) at that which yet must seem 
Undimm'd in the long retrospect of years — 
The beautiful imperishable Past ! 
Were this not natural, being innocent now 
— At least of that which is the greater crime? 
To-night we shall not be so. 

^GISTHUS. 

Ah, to-night ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

All will be done which now the Gods foresee. 
The sun shines still. 



I oft have mark'd some day 
Begin all gold in its flusht orient, 
With splendid promise to the waiting world. 
And turn to blackness ere the sun ran down. 
So draws our love to its dark close. To-night — 



310 CLYTEMNESTRA. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Shall bring our bridals, my Belov'd ! For, either 

Upon the melancholy shores of Death 

(One shadow near the doors of Pluto) greeted 

By pale Proserpina, our steps shall be, 

Or else, secure, in the great empty palace 

We shall sleep crown'd — no noise to startle us — 

And Argos silent round us— all our own ! 

,T:GisTrius. 
In truth I do not dare to think this thing. 
For all the Greeks will hate us. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

What of that ? 
If that they do not harm us — as who shall ? 

.EGISTHUS. 

Moreover, tho' we triumph in the act 
(And we may fail, and fall) we shall go down 
Cover'd with this reproach into the tomb, 
Hunted by all the red Euraenides ; 
And, in the end, the ghost of him we slew, 
Being beforehand there, will come between 
Us and the awful Judges of the dead ! 
And no one on this earth will pray for us ; 
And no hand will hang garlands on our urns, 
Either of man, or maid, or little child ; 
But we shall be dishonour'd. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O faint heart ! 
When this poor life of ours is done with — all 
Its foolish days put by — its bright and dark — 
Its praise and blame — roll'd quite away — gone o'er 
Like some brief pageant — will it stir us more. 
Where we are gone, how men may hoot or shout 
After our footste]3s, than^the dust and garlands 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 311 

A few mad boys and girls fling in the air 
When a great host is pass'd, can cheer or vex 
The minds of men already out of sight 
Toward other lands, with paean and with pomp 
Array'd near vaster forces ? For the future, 
We will smoke hecatombs, and build new fanes, 
And be you sure the gods deal leniently 
With those who grapple for their life, and pluck it 
From the closed gripe of Fate, albeit perchance 
Some ugly smutch, some drop of blood or so, 
A spot here, there a streak, or stain of gore. 
Should in the contest fall to them, and mar 
That life's original whiteness. 

^EGISTIIUS. 

Tombs have tongues 
That talk in Hades. Think it ! Dare we hope. 
This done, to be more happy ? 

CLYTEINIMESTKA. 

My Belov'd, 
We are not happy — we may never be, 
Perchance, again. Yet it is much to think 
We have been so : and ev'n tho' we must weep. 
We have enjoy 'd. 

The roses and the thorns 
We have pluckt together. We have proved both. 

Say, 
Was it not worth the bleeding hands they left us 
To have won such flowers ? And if 'twere possible 
To keep them still — keep even the wither'd leaves, 
Even the wither'd leaves are worth our care. 
We will not tamely give up life — such life ! 
What tho' the years before, like those behind. 
Be dark as clouds the thunder sits among, 
Tipt only here and there with a wan gold 
More bright for rains between ? — 'tis much — 'tis 

more, 
For we shall ever think " the sun's behind. 



812 CL YTF.MN KSTK A. 

The sun must shine before the day ooos down ! " 

Anythinii- better than the lon«r, h)ni>- ni«iht, 

Anil that perpetual silence of the tomb ! 

'Tis not tor happier hours, but lite itself 

AVhieh may brino- happier hours, Me strike at Fate. 

AVhy, tho' from all the treasury of the Past 

'Tis but one solitary gem we save — 

One kiss more such as we have kist, one smile, 

One more embraee, one nioht more such as those 

Whieh we have shared, how costly were the prize, 

How riehly Avorth the attem]it ! Indeed, I know, 

AVhen yt't a I'hild, in those dim }>leasant dreams 

A girl will dream, perehanee in twilit hours, 

Or under eve's first star (when we are young 

Happiness seems so possible — so near ! 

One says, '• it must go hard, but T shall find it ! ") 

C)tttimes I umseil — " ]My life shall be my own. 

To make it what 1 Avill." It is their fault 

(I thought) who miss the true delights. I thought 

^len might have saved themselves : they flung away, 

Too easily abasht, life's opening ]n'omise : 

But all things will be different ft)r me. 

For 1 felt life so strong in me I indeed 

I was so sure of my own power to love 

And to enjoy — T had so much to give, 

I said, '-'• be sure it must win something back ! " 

Youth is so eonfident ! And tho' 1 saw 

All women sad — not only those T knew. 

As Helen (whou\ from youth 1 knew, nor ever 

Hivined that sail impenetrable smile 

AVhieh oft would darken thro' her lustrous eyes, 

As drawino- slowly down o'er her eold cheek 

The yellow braids of odorous hair, she turn'd 

From ^Nlenelans praising her, and sigh'd — 

That was before he, flinging bitterly down 

The trampled parsley-crown and uiulrain'd goblet, 

Curs'd before all the Gods his sudden shame 

And young Hermione's deserted youth !) 

Kot only her — but all whose lives I learn 'd, 



CLYTEMNE8TRA. 313 

Medea, Deianeira, Ariadne, 

And many others — all weak, wrong'd, oj;)prest, 

Or sick and sorrowful, as I am now — 

Yet in tlieii- fate I would not see my own. 

Nor grant allcgianee to that general law 

From which a few, I knew a very few, 

With whom it seem'd I also might be number'd. 

Had yet escaped securely : — so exempting 

From this world's desolation everywhere 

One fate — my own ! 

Well, that was foolish ! Now 
I am not so exacting. As we move 
Further and further down the path of fate 
1 o the sure tomb, we yield up, one by one, 
Our claims on Fortune, till with each new year 
VVe seek less and go further to obtain it. 
'Tis the old tale — aye, all of us must learn it! 
]>ut yet 1 would not empty-handed stand 
Before the House of Hades. Still there's life. 
And hope with life ; and much that may be done. 
Look up, O thou most dear and cherisht head ! 
AV^e'U strive still, conquering ; or, if falling, fall 
In si^ht of iirand results. 



^KGISTIIUS. 

May these things be ! 
I know not. All is vague. I should be strong 
Fven were you weak. 'Tis otherwise — I see 
No path to safety sure. We have done ill things. 
]>est let the past be past, lest new griefs come. 
Best we part now. 



Part ! what, to part from thee I 
Never till death — not in death even, part ! 



7F.GISTHUS. 

But one course now is left. 



814 CLYTEMNKSTRA. 

CLYTKMNKSTKA. 

And that is- 

.•KGISTIU'S. 



Flight. 



Cl-YTKMNKSTUA. 



Coward 



-KGISTIIUS. 

I care not. 

OLYTKM NKSTKA . 

Flight ! T am a Queen. 
A goddoss once you said — and why not jjoddess ? 
Scoing the (lods arc mightier than we 
By so much more of courage. Oh, not I, 
But you, arc mad. 

.EGisrnus. 

Nay, wiser than I was. 

CLYTKMNKSTRA. 

And you will leave me? 

JEOISTUVS. 

Not if you Avill come. 

CLYTEMKKsrUA. 

This was the Atlas of the world I built ! 

-Kcusrnus. 
Flight ! . . . yes, I know not . . . somewhere . . . 

anywhere. 
You come ? . . . you come not ? . . . well ? . . . no 

time to pause ! 



CLYTEMNKSTRA. 315 



CLYTEMNKSTKA. 

And this is he — this he, the man I loved ! 

And this is retribution ! O my heart ! 

O Ajramemnon, how art tliou avenged ! 

And I have done so mueh for him ! . . . would do 

So much ! . . . a universe lies ruin'd here. 

Now by Apollo, be a man for once I 

Be for once strong, or be forever weak ! 

If shame be dead, and honour be no more, 

i\o more true faith, nor that which in old time 

Made us like Gods, sublime in our high place, 

Yet all surviving instincts warn from flight. 

Flight I — oh, impossible ! Even now the steps 

Of fate are at the threshold. Which way fly ? 

For every avenue is barr'd by death. 

AVill these not scout your flying heels ? If now 

They hate us powerful, will they love us weak ? 

No land is safe ; nor any neighbouring king 

Will harbour Agamemnon's enemy. 

Reflect on Troy ; her ashes smoulder yet. 

yKGTSTIIUS. 

Her words compel me with their awful truth. 

For so would vengeance hound and earth us down. 

CLYTKMNESTRA. 

If I am weak to move you by that love 

You swore long since — and seal'd it with false 

lips ! — 
Yet lives there nothing of the ambitious will ? 
Of those proud plots, and dexterous policy, 
On which you builded such high hopes, and swore 
To rule this people Agamemnon rules ; 
Supplant him eminent on his own throne, 
And push our power thro' Greece ? 

^•:gisthus. 

The dream was great ! 



,'UG 01 N I KMM S I KA. 

It uas a iliiMUi. ^^'o ilroam'l it liki^ a king. 

Ay. antl shall so tultil it liko ;i lun^- I 

^^'l^o talks of tliiiht ? Vov now, botliiiik you woll. 

It to livtMMi. tho byworil ot'a nvoiKI, 

Im> any iiain. ovon suoh lli;i;ht oI1\m-s woi. 

Will lonii-annM Noniiiwun* novor liiul yon iMit 

\\ lion you ha\o lolt tho Avtwpon in hor hands? 

Im» hold, and n\oot hor ! ^^ ho toivstnll tho holts 

(>t'hoa\on. tho iJods «loon\ worthy ot'tho (uuis. 

Snoot>ss is ni.ado tho n\oasnro ot'onv aots. 

.\i\d. think .Kiiisthns, thoro lias Ihumi ono thoujiht. 

Hot'oro us \n tho intorvals ot'yoars. 

l>ot\voon us ovor in tho loni>- tlark niiihts, 

\\'hon. lyinu all awako. >vt^ hoanl tho wind. 

ni»l yon shrii\k thon ? or, oidy olosor drawinsr 

Your lips to tiiino. your arn\s about luy tUH'k, 

Say, *• ^^'lu^ wmdd toar siu'h thanoos. whon ho saw 

Hohinil thtMU suoh a pri/o lor hin\ as this ? " 

Po >ou shrink now ? O.aro von put all this tVoin 

you ? 
l\o\i>ko tho pron\iso ot'thoso yoars. and say 
This prospoot nioots you iinproparoil at last ? 
Our n\otlvOvS aro so mixt in thoir bouitiuinii'j! 
And so oont'usod, wo UH'Oii'nizo thotn not 
rill thoy aro uroMu to aots; but uo'or woro ours 
So blindly wov'n. but what wo both nniauiiloil 
(>ut ot'tho intrioaoios ot'tho hoart 
(>no pur[)oso :— boinu' touml. host urapplo to it. 
I'or to otuiooivo ill iloods yot daro not do thoni. 
This is not \irtuo. but a twi^told shamo. 
InMwoon tho oulprit antl tho Ponii-iiMd 
I'horo's but ono dilVoronoo niou lOiia rd —suoooss. 
Tho woakly-wiokod shall bo tloubly ilamuod I 

\ oisnu s. 
I am not woak .... wha( will you ? .... oh, too 
woak 



(;t,vTKM\»:H'H{.A. .51 7 

Tf) heir- lliis H(!orfi ! . . . SIm; is n ^'odlikc ficrxJ 
Ami licll ;in<l lic;iv(tii Hccrn jri<;<',l,iii;j; in li(;r v,yv,H. 

(•j.yiKMMCH'rJtA. 
TlifiH*' wlio (HI pfirilous vcntuniH once (rtnbaric 
.Sliould burn llicir Hhi[)H, nor <;v«!r (Jrc.'un r(;l,iirn. 
I'.i-Hc.r, llio' ;ill Olyntf)ijM tnarclj'd on iim, 
To (li«; like, rallcn TiUriM, Hcornirif^ Ilcavfin, 
Tlian liv(; like. MlavcM in Hooin of our own Hc,lvr;H ! 

/KOIH'JIIIH. 

VV'; vvail, fluui V (iood ! and dare this d(;H[>(;rat(j 

(;lian<;.;. 
And if w(; fall (hh wc, I lliink, must fall) 
1 1, irt hut houk; few Hunny Iiouth W(; ios(!, 
Souk; few bri<.';lit days. True! arid a liltl<; leH8 
Of life, or cIh(; of wron;^ a little more, 
VVIial's that V For one HJiade rnfjre or leHS tlic 

ni-ht 
Will Hearee Heeni darkctr or li;/liler the lon;^ "i;^'''' ! 
We'll fall trj;.M;ther, if wc fall ; and if- 
Oli if wc live ! 

ClyVTKMNKHIItA. 

Ay, that was nohller tliou<^lit ! 
Now yon </v(>w haek into yoursctif, your true .self, 
My Kin;.'! njy <diosen ! my ^dad eartdess h(d[)inatc 
In the olrl lime ! W(; Hharerj its pheasant <Jayn 
Royally, did we ruitV How hrief they were! 
Nor will I deem you le.ss than what I kufjw 
You havij it in you to heeouK;, for this 
St,ran<^(! fr(iakish fear — this [jassin;; brief alarm. 
l)o I not know the nr)hle nUtcA will Htart 
v\side, Heanjd li^^htly by a Htraw, a whadow, 
A thorn-bush in tlu; way, while tin; <iidl miile 
I'lorls stupidly adown the dizziest p;jthsV 
y\nd oft indeed, such Irifhi.H will dismay 
The, finest ;ind most ea;^er H[»iritH, which yet 
Daunt not a duller mind. O love, be «ure 



318 CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Whate'er betide, whether for well or ill, 

Thy fate and mine are bound up in one skein, 

Clotho must cut them both inseparate. 

You dare not leave me — had you wings for flight ! 

You shall not leave me ! You are mine, indeed, 

(As I am yours !) by my strong right of grief. 

Not death together, but together life ! 

Life — life with safe and honourable years, 

And power to do with these that which we would ! 

— His lips comprest — his eye dilates — he is saved ! 

O, when strong natures into frailer ones 

Have struck deep root, if one exalt not both, 

Both must drag down and perish ! 

^EGISTHUS. 

If we should live — 

OLYTKMNESTEA. 

And we shall live. 

.EGISTHUS. 

Yet . . . yet— 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

What ! shrinking still ? 
I'll do the deed. Do not stand off' from me. 

.EGISTIIUS. 

Terrible Spirit ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Nay, not terrible, 
Not to thee terrible — O say not so ! 
To thee I never have been anything 
But a weak, passionate, unhappy woman 
(O woe is me !) and now you fear me — 



No, 
But rather worship. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 319 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O my heart, my heart, 
It sends up all its anguish in this cry — 
Love me a little ! 

^GISTHUS. 

What a spell she has 
To sway the inmost courses of the soul ! 
My spirit is held up to such a height 
I dare not breathe. How finely sits this sorrow 
Upon her, like the garment of a God ! 
I cannot fathom her. Does the same birth 
Bring forth the monster and the demi-god ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I will not doubt ! All's lost, if love be lost — 
Peace, honour, innocence — gone, gone ! all gone ! 
And you, too — you, poor baffled crownless schemer, 
Whose life my love makes royal, clothes in purple, 
Establishes in state, without me, answer me, 
What should you do but perish, as is fit ? 

love, you dare not cease to love me now ! 

We have let the world go by us. We have trusted 
To ourselves only : if we fail ourselves 
What shall avail us now ? Without my love 
What rests for you but universal hate. 
And Agamemnon's sword ? Ah, no — you love me. 
Must love me, better than you ever loved — 
Love me, I think, as you love life itself! 
iEgisthus ! Speak ^gisthus ! 

-(EGISTHUS. 

O great heart ! 

1 am all yours. Do with me what you will. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Oh, if you love me, I have strength for both. 
And you do love me still ? 



820 ri,Y rj::\iNKsri{A. 

() nun*o, (l\rit'o more, 
Thrlco moio than Nverl tluMi AjiluHHlito's soli' 
Stopt zoMod ami saivdalM \'ro\n tho ()!yiui)iau Foast, 
Or iirst ivvcalM amoiiii- the pink soa-loani. 

(-l.YTKMNKSTK.V. 

\\'1k\(o\m' I am, bo snro (hat I am (hat 

\Vhioli thon hast made mo — nothino- of'mvsoll'. 

(^noo, all nnho.oill'ul, oaroloss ot'mysolf. 

Anil wholly ignorant o\' what I was, 

1 grow np as a rooil somo wind will tom-h. 

And wako to projdiooy — till thon all unito, 

And void of mohnly — a Ibolish wood I 

My soul was blind, anti all my lilo was dark. 

And all my hoart pinoil with somo ignorant want. 

1 movod abont, a shadow in the house, 

Ai\d t'olt unwoddod though 1 was a wito ; 

And all tho mon and womon whioh 1 saw 

A\'oro but as pii'turt>s paintod on a wall : 

'I'o n\o thoy had not olthor hoart, or brain. 

Or lips, or languago — pioturosi nothing nuMV. 

Thon, sudilonly, athwart those lonely hours 

^^'hu■h, day by ilay ilreamM listlessly away, 

Ked to the tlark and melaneholy tomb. 

Thy presenee passed and toueh'd me with a soul. 

My lite ilid but begin when 1 Ibuml thee. 

O what a strength was hidden in this heart I 

As, all unvalued, in its eold dark eave 

Tudor snow hills, some rare and prieeless gem 

May sparkle and burn, so in this life ot'mine 

Kove lay shut up. You broke the rook away. 

You lit upon the jewel that it hid, 

You pluek'd it tbrth — to wear it, my Helov'd I 

To set in the erown of thy dear lit'e I 

To en\belllsh tortune I Cast it not away. 

Now eall me by the old familiar names : 

Call me agaiti your Queen, as onee you used ; 

Your large-eved Here I 



CLVTKMNK.STIIA. 821 



Ax;i.s'rn(;H. 

Oil, you an; a Qu(!(;n 
That Hlionld }iav(; none; but OocJs to ruN; over ! 
Make me iruiaortal with one eo«tIy kisH ! i^ 



VIII. (;I1()IM:S. KLKCTHA. CLVIKMNKSTJiA. 

yi':(iisTjn;,s. 



lo ! lo ! I hear the [jeo{)h; shout. 

ii.Kf/ritA. 
See how these two do mutually confer, 
Hatching new infamy. Now will lie dare, 
In his unhoundfid impudenee, to m<!et 
My father'H eyes V 'I'he \\u\xv is nigh at hand. 

f;i,yi K.MNKHIHA. 

O love, In; hold ! the hour is nigh at liand. 



Laden with retribution, lingering slow. 

yKOIHTHCH. 

A time in travail with some great distress. 

<;i-y IKMNKSTItA. 

Nay, rather safety for the rest of time. 
O love ! O hate ! 

KLKCTUA. 

O vengeance ! 

/KOIKTHLTS. 

O wild chance 1 
If favouring fate — 
21 



822 OLYTKMNKSTUA. 



ClATKMNKSTHA. 

Despair is nunc lliar. fate. 

niours. 
lo ! To! Tlic Kiini' is on his niarclu 

.IH. IS 11 us. 

Did von hoar that ? 

Kl.l ( IKA. 

The honr is ni^h at hand ! 

t i.yti:>im:s'I'ka. 
Leave nie to deal with these. I know the arts 
That iinide the (hnibtl'nl pnrpose of diseonrse 
Thro' many windings t(^ the ap])ointed uoah 
I'll draw them on io sneh a frame of mind 
As best befits onr jnirpose. Yon, meanwhile, 
Scatter vaiine words amonji; the other crowd, 
Lest the event, when it is dne, fall I'onl 
Of unpropitions natnres. 

.lunsrnis. 

Do yon fear 
The helpless, blind ill-will of sneh a crowd ? 

CIA'TKMNKSTIJA. 

He only fears mankiiul who knows them not. 
lint him I praise not who despises them. 
AVhiMice come. KK'ctra V 

la.K.rrKA. 

l<^'om my t'ather's hearth 
To meet him ; tor the honr is nigh at hand. 

Ol.YTKMNKSTKA. 

So do onr hopes race hotly to one end, 
(A noble rivalry !) as Avho shall first 



CLYTKMNKBTHA. 828 

Erri}jrfu;(! tliiH Ii?»f)[>y forluiKj. 'Vnvry not 
Wc too will follow. 

TCfJCCTUA. 

Justice, O be Hwif't! 



IX. CLYTKMNESTKA. CllOkl'S. SEMI-CHOKL'S. 
UVAIAIA). 

c;i>yticmn7chti:a. 
A i'r()w;ir(] clilM ! Sh(!'.s ^orn;. My blood's in li(5r. 
Ilcr fntlicr'H, too, looks out of tliat [>rou(] faoc. 
SIk; is l(;o bold . . . ha, well — yiO^iintlius V . . . gone ! 
() falc ! to bo a •woman ! You ^rcat OodH, 
Wliy did you fashif)n rnc in this soft mould V 
(iiv<; ni(! tli(;H(j htn^^llis of" nilky hair V these hands 
Too delicately dimf)Ied ! and these arms 
'I'oo whit«!, loo weak ! yet leave the man's heart in 

m<5, 
To mar your mast'irpieee — that I should p(;riHli, 
Who else had won renown amon;^ my peers, 
A man, with men — perehanee a i^od with you, 
Had you but Ixitter sex'd me, yon blind (jods ! 
J>ut, as fV>r man, all tliin;:s are filtin;; to him. 
Jl(! str-ikes his fellow 'mid the (;lari;.'in^ shields, 
And h'aps amon^ the smokin;^ walls, and lak(!S 
SoiiK! lon^-hair'(l vir^dri 'wailin;^ at the shrines, 
iler brethren havin;^ fallen ; and you (jods 
Cfimnutnd him, erown him, f^rant him am[)le days, 
And dyin^ honour, and an endl(!HS peace 
Amon^ the d(;ep I'.lysian asphod(!ls. 
() fate, to be a woman ! 'J'o be led 
])umb, like a poor nmle, at a master's will. 
And be a slave;, tho' bred in palaces, 
And be a fool, tho' seat(;d with the wise — 
A poor and pitiful fool, as I am now, 
Ixjving and liating my vain life, away ! 



844 01 YTKMNVSTKA. 



V UvMU S. 

Thoso tUnviM^^- wo pluokM thoi\i 
At u\on\inii, anil 10v>k thon\ 
Kj\m\\ brijiiit boos that sviokM (hon\ 
Avul wanu wuuls that shook thorn 
Xoath hhu> hills that o'orlook thorn. 

SKM\-v uvuas. 
\Vith tho ilows of tho luoaiioNV 
Our »\>sy Nvarju tiuiiors 
Sjvuklo yot, aiul tho shavlo>Y 
Ottho suimwotM'lotnJ lu\iivi^ 
In tho hair ot"us siniivi-s. 

viKf.v SKM\ oiunus. 
Kiv thoso biuls on our altars 
Fado ; otv tho torkt tuv, 
Kovi with pvuv honoy taltors. 
And tails ; lomior. highor 
Kaiso tho Tjoan. 

SKl\>NO SlMl I'HOKl'S. 

Oraw nighor, 
Stantl olosor I First praiso wo 
Tho Fathor of all. 
To him tho song I'juso wo. 
()vor Hoavon's gv^Uion wall 
hot it tall 1 l.o\ it tall ! 

KlUSr SKMl 1 lUMU s. 

Thon Apollo, tho king of 
Tho lyiv anil tho Ih-jw ; 
Who tanght ns to sing of 
Tho ilooils that wo know — 
Dooils woll dono long ag\"». 

SKOv^NO SK>U-OUOKl'S. 

Noxt. of all tho luuuortAb, 



(;/,y'j i-MM'HiiiA. 825 

Alli<;n«;'H ^ray cycn ; 

Who hifH tliron<;<J in otjr portalx, 

iOvcr fair, (jv<;r wlw?. 

I'JKh'J J-.J'.M/MIO/'.r/M. 

N«iif.^^f!r dan; w(; d<;HpiHe 
To cxUil t}i<; ^rc.'.il Hcrii. 

Hl'.<:<)Sl} hi'.MI -rno/£i;H. 

Afifi lli<:fl, 
Am in 'Jii<;, Hlial) our Honjjj 
l»<; fjftliOKr; arnori;^ rn<;ii 
Who w<;nt hravf;, wlio wen: airoufj^, 
Who <-.nfJijj«','J. 

'J'hfifi, th<; wr()Ufi 
Of the. JMiry;.'i;jri : aruJ llif>n'M falnc «onH : 
And Sr^rnand<;r'H wihJ wavr; 
'i'h jo' Ui<; tjh-ak plain that miiH. 

'•I'.CDsn hi'.Mi 'noj:t;h. 
'i'hr-.n, tlic, death offhc, brave. 

KIllhT HKMt-<:tiom:H. 
L'riHt, of wliorn the Oofl8 Have 
]''or new honoiirH : oftfiern none 
So i^<)()<\ or HO ;.n-eat 
Ah oiir elii<',r A^rarn<;rnnon 
'J'he crown of our State. 

ei.VTKM.M'.h'l liA. 

r> friendH, true lieartw, rejoice witfi me I 'I'hl« day 
Shall erown th<; hope of t<;n uncertain yearn ! 

<:it<)iif:r. 
For Ai/ainernno/i efjnnot bi; far off — 



S2l? Ol.Y I KMNKSrUA. 



OL\ TKMNKSrKA. 

lie oomes — and yet — O lleavon proservo 1155 all ! 
My heart is weak — theiv's One he brings not baek ; 
\Vho went witli him ; who Avill not come again ; 
\\ lunn we sliall never see I — 

euoius. 

O Queen, tor Avhoui, 
Lamenting thus, is your great heart east down ? 

ei.\ VKMNKsrUA. 

The earliest loved — the earlv lost ! mv ehild — 



Iphigenia? 



Cl.\ rKMNKSTKA. 

She — mv ehild — 



— Alas: 
That was a terrible necessity I 

Ol.YrKMNKSrUA. 

Was it necessity ? O panion, triends, 

Init in the dark, unsolaeed solitude, 

AVild thonghts eome to me, and perplex my heart. 

This, whieh you eall a dread necessity. 

Was it a murder or a siierillee ? 

cnouis. 
h was a Ciod that did deei-ee the death. 

Ol.Y IKMNKSntA. 

*Tis through the heart the Gods do speak to us. 
High instincts are the oracles ot' heaven. 
Diil ever heart — did ever God. betbre, 
SuiXgest such tbul intanticidal lie ? 



CLYTKMMiSlJtA. $27 

CHORUS. 

Be comforted I The universal good 
Needed tliis single, individual loss. 

OLVTKMNKSTUA. 

Can all men's good be helped by one man's crime? 

c J I onus, 
lie loosed the Greeks from Aulls by that deed. 

CLyXKMXKSTJiA. 

O casual argument I Who gave the Greeks 

Such bloody claim upon a virgin's life ? 

Shall the pure bleed to purge impurity V 

A hundred Helens were not worth that death ! 

What! had tlie manhood of combined Greece, 

^Vhose boast was in its untamed strength, no help 

Better than the spilt blood of one poor girl ? 

Or, if it were of need that blood should flow, 

AVhat God ordain'd him executioner ? 

Was it for him the Armament was plann'd ? 

For him that angry Greece was leagued in war? 

For him, or Menelaus, was this done ? 

Was the cause his, or Menelaus' cause ? 

^Vas he less sire tlian Menelaus was? 

He. too, had children ; did he murder them? 

O, was it manlike V was it human, even ? 

CHORUS. 

Alas ! alas I it was an evil thing. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O friends, if any one among you all. 

If any be a mother, bear with me I 

She was my earliest born, my best beloved. 

The painful labour of that perilous birth 

That gave her life did almost take my own. 

lie had no pain. He did not bring her forth. 

How should he, therefore, love her as I loved ? 



328 ChYTEMNESTRA. 

CHORUS. 

Ai ! ai ! alas ! Our tears run down with yours. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Oh, who shall say with what delicious tears, 
With what ineffable tenderness, while he 
Took his blithe pastime on the windy plain. 
Among the ringing camps, and neighing steeds, 
First of his glad compeers, I sat apart, 
Silent, within the solitary house : 
Kocking the little child upon my breast ; 
And soothed its soft eyes into sleep with song ! 



Ai ! ai ! unhappy, sad, unchilded one ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Or, when I taught, from inarticulate sounds, 
The little, lisping, lips to breathe his name. 
Now they will never breathe that name again 



Alas ! for Hades has not any hope. 

Since Thracian women lopp'd the tuqeful head 

Of Orpheus, and Ileracleus is no more. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Or, spread in prayer the helpless, infant hands, 
That they, too, might invoke the Gods for him. 
Alas, who now invokes the Gods for her ? 
Unwedded, hapless, gone to glut the womb 
Of dark, untimely Orcus ! 

CHORUS. 

Ai ! alas ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I would have died, if that could be, for her ! 



CLYTEMNESTUA. 329 

When Hie is half-way set to feeble eld, 

And memory more than hope, and to dim eyes 

The goro;eous tapestry of existence shows 

Moth'd, finger'd, fray'd, and bare, 'twere not so hard 

To fling away this ravell'd skein of life, 

Which else, a little later, Fate had cut. 

And who would sorrow for the o'erblown rose 

Sharp winter strews about its own bleak thorns? 

But, cropp'd before the time, to fall so young ! 

And wither in the gloomy crown of Dis ! 

Never to look upon the blessed sun — 



Ai ! ai ! alinon ! woe is me, this grief 
Strikes pity paralyzed. All words are weak ! 

CLYTE^INESTRA. 

And I had dreamed such splendid dreams for her ! 
Who would not so for Agamemnon's child ? 
For we had hoped that she, too, in her time 
Would be the mother of heroic men ! 

CHORUS. 
There rises in my heart an awful fear, 
Lest from these evils darker evils come ; 
For heaven exacts, for wrong, the uttermost tear, 
And death hath language after life is dumb ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

It works ! it works ! 

CHORUS. 

Look, some one comes this way. 

HERALD. 

O Honour of the House of Tantalus ! 
The king's wheels echo in the brazen gates. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Our heart is half-way there, to welcome him. 



3S0 Ol Y IKMNKsrU A. 

How looks ho? Woll ? Aiul all our UM\o'-K>st 

tVioiuls— ^ 
Thoir taoos givw hotoiv mi> I l,t\ul tho wav 
AVIuM'O >vo luav moot thorn. All our hasto sooius 

slow. 

t'luua s. 
>VouM that ho brouulu his ih\ul ohiUl luok with 
him ! 



CIATKMM SiKV. 

Now \cl him oomo. Tho uiisoluof works apaoo I 

\. OlhUJlS. 

i'lunu s. 
Tho wluils woro luUM in Aulis; and tho day, 
Uow n-vslopod, was loltoriuii- to tho lazy west. 
Thoro was no motion ot" tho glassy hay, 
Imu all things by a hoavv liolit oppivst. 
Windloss. out oir upon tho dostimnl wav — 
Park shivuds, distinot against tho lurid lull — 
Park n^pos hung nsoloss, looso, t"t\)n\ mast to iuiU — 
Tho blaok ships lay abivast. 
Not nny oloud would omss tho brtHulinu; skies. 
Tho ilistant soa boiuuM taintly. Nothiuii" n\oro. 
Thoy walkotl about upiui tho yolKnv shoro ; 
0\\ lying listloss. huddlovl groups supine, 
With taoes turn'd towa^^l tho tlat sea-spino. 
Thoy plann'd tho Phrygian battle o'er, and o'er ; 
Till eaoh givw sullen, and would talk no nuMV. 
But sat. dun\b-drean\ing. Then wouhl sv>uie one 

rise. 
And look towarvl the hollow hulls, with haggard, 

hopeless eyes — • 
AVild eyes — ^and, erowding round, yet wilder eyes — 
And gaping, languid lips ; 
And evervwheiv that njon eouUl see. 



CLYTKMNKSTJtA. 331 

About lh(; black, blaok nliipK, 

Was notliiii^r but tlj(i deep-J'<i<] sea ; 

'1 li(i «l(;('}>-red hhoro ; 

'1 he, (kiop-rc'd hkl<;H ; 

TIk; dee|)-r(;d silence, tlil'k with lliirsty sighs; 

And dayli;zlit, dyinjz wlowly. Nothing more. 

'J'he tall iiiaKtH stood upright; 

And not a sail above th<; burnish'd prores ; 

I'lie languid sea, like one outwearied quite, 

Shrank, dying inward into hollow shores. 

And breathless harbours, under sandy bars; 

And, one by one, down tracts of (juivering blue, 

T\i(t sinifed and siiltry stars 

T>ook'd f'rotn the inmost heaven, far, faint, and few, 

While, all below, the sick, and steaming brine 

'J'he spill'd-out sunset did incarnadine. 

At last one broke the silence ; and a word 
Was lisp'd and buzz'd af>out, from mouth to mouth ; 
J'ale fac(;s grew more pale ; wild whis{>ers stirr'd ; 
And men, with moody, murmuring li[)S, conferr'd 
In ominous tones, from shaggy beards uncouth : 
As tho' som(; wind had brok«;n from thcj blurr'd 
And blazing prison of tlxi stagnant drouth, 
And stirr'd the salt sea in the stifled south. 
The long-robed priests etood round; and, in the 

gloom, 
L'nd(ir black brows, their bright and greedy eyes 
Shone deathfidly; there was a sound of sighs, 
Thick-sobb'd from choking throats among the 

crowd, 
That, whispering, gather'd close, with dark heads 

bow'd ; 
liut no man lifted up liis voice aloufl. 
For heavy hung o'er all the hel[)les.s sense of doom. 

Then, after solemn prayer, 

Th(i father bade the attendants, tenderly 

J^ift her upon the lurid altar-stone. 



oo2 CLYTKMNK8TUA. 

There ^vas no ho})e in any lace ; eaeli eye 

Swam teai't'nl, that her own ilid uaze npon. 

They bonnd her helpless hands with nionriit'ul eare ; 

And loopM up her lono- hair, 

That hunt:; about her, like an amber shower, 

ISIix'd with the sallVon robe, and tairm<jc lower. 

Down from her bare, and cold, white shoulder lUini;. 

I'pon the heaving breast the })ale cheek hnn^, 

SutVused with that wild light that roU'd anionii- 

The pausing crowtl, out of the crimson drouth. 

They held hot hands upon her pleading month; 

And stilled on faint lips the natural cry. 

Back from the altar-stone, 

Slow-moving in his tixed place 

A little space. 

The speechless father turu'd. No word was said. 

He wrapp'd his mantle close about his face, 

In his dumb grief, without a moan. 

The lopping axe was litted overhead. 

Then, suddenly, 

There sounded a strange motion of the sea, 

Booming far inland ; anil above the east 

A raggeil cloud rose slowly, and increas'd. 

Not one line in the horoscope of Time 

Is perfect. Oh, what falling otf is this, 

AVhen some grand soul, that else had been sublime, 

Falls unawares amiss. 

And stoops its crested strength to sudden crime ! 

So gracious a thing is it, and sweet. 

In life's clear centre one trne man to see. 

That holds strong nature in a wise control ; 

Throbbing out, all round, the heat 

Of a large, and liberal soul. 

No shadow, simulating lite. 

But pulses warm with human nature, 

In a soul of godlike stature ; 

Heart, and brain, all rich and rife 

With noble instincts ; strong to meet 

Time calmly, in his purposed place. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 333 

Sound thro' and thro', and all complete ; 

Exalting what is low, and base ; 

Enlarging what is narrow, and small ; 

He stamps his character on all, 

And with his grand identity 

Fills up Creation's eye. 

He Avill not dream the aimless years away 

In blank delay, 

But makes eternity of to-day. 

And reaps the fuU-ear'd time. For him 

Nature her affluent horn doth brim, 

To strew with fruit and flowers his way — 

Fruits ripe, and flowers gay. 

The clear soul in his earnest eyes 
Looks thro' and thro' all plaited lies. 
Time shall not rob him of his youth. 
Nor narrow his large sympathies. 
He is not true, he is a truth, 
And such a truth as never dies. 
Who knows his nature, feels his right, 
And, toiling, toils for his delight ; 
Not as slaves toil : where'er he goes, 
The desert blossoms with the rose. 
He trusts himself in scorn of doubt, 
And lets orb'd purpose widen out. 
The world works with him ; all men see 
Some part of them fulfill'd in him ; 
His memory never shall grow dim ; 
He holds the heaven and earth in fee, 
Not following that, fulfilling this, 
He is immortal, for he is ! 

O weep ! weep ! weep ! 

Weep for the young that die; 

As it were pale flowers that wither under 

The smiting sun, and fall asunder. 

Before the dews on the grass are dry. 

Or the tender twilight is out of the sky, 



834 CLYTEMNFSTRA. 

Or the lilies have fall'n asleep ; 

Or ships by a wanton wind cut short 

Arc wreckM in sij^ht of the j)laeicl port: 

Sinkng strangely, and suddenly — 

Sadly, and strangely, and snddenly — 

Into the blaek Pintonian deep. 

O wee]) ! weep ! weep ! 

Weep, and bow the head, 

For those wjiose snn is set at noon ; 

AVhose night is dark, withont a moon : 

Whose aim of life is sped 

Beyond pnrsuing Avoes, 

And the arrow of anury foes, 

To the darkness that no man knows — 

The darkness among the dead. 

Let ns monrn, and bow the head, 

And lift up the voiee, and weep 

For the early dead ! 

For the early dead we may bow the head. 

And strike the breast, and weep ; 

But, oh, what shall be said 

For the living sorrow '? 

For tlie living sorrow our grief — 

Dumb grief — draws no relief 

From tears, nor yi't may borrow 

Solace from sound, or speeeh ; — 

For the living sorrow 

That heaps to-morrow upon to-morrow 

In ]nled up pain, beyond Hope's reach ! 

It is well that we mourn for the early dead, 

Strike the breast, and bow the head ; 

For the sorrow tor these may be sung, or said, 

And the ehaplets be woven for the fall'n head, 

And the urns to the stately tombs be led. 

And Love from their memory may be fed, 

And song may ennoble the anguish; 

But, oh, for the living sorrow — 

For the living sorrow what hopes remain ? 

For the prison'd, pining, passionate pain. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 335 

That is (loomM forever to lanjjuish, 

And to lan;^uish forever in vain, 

For the want of the words that may bestead 

The liunger that out of loss is bred. 

O friends, for the livinf^ sorrow — 

For the living sorrow — 

For the living sorrow what shall be said ? 

XI. A PHOCIAN. CHORUS. SEMI-CHORUS. 

PIIOCIAX. 

O noble strangers, if indeed you be 
Sucli as you seem, of Argos, and the land 
That the uneonf|uer'd Agamemnon rules, 
Tell me is this the palace, these the roofs 
Of the Atrida', famed in ancient song? 



Not without truth you name the neighbourhood, 
Standing Ijefore the threshold, and the doors 
Of Pelops, and upon the Argive soil. 
That which you see above the Agora 
Is the old fane of the Lycjcan God, 
And this the house of Agamemnon's queen. 
But whence art thou ? For if thy dusty lo(;ks. 
And those soil'd sandals show with aught of truth, 
Thou shouldst be come from far. 

PIIOCIAX. 

And am so. friends, 
But, by Heaven's favour, here my journey ends. 

CllOIiUS. 

AVhence, then, thy way V 

PIIOCIAX. 

From Phocis ; charged with gifts 
For Agamemnon, and with messages 
From Strophius, and the sister of your king. 



336 CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Our watchmen saw the beacon on the hills, 
And leap'd for joy. Say, is the king yet come ? 



He comes this way ; stand by, I hear them shout. 
Here shall you meet him, as he mounts the hill. 

PHOCIAN. 

Now blest be all the Gods, from Father Zeus, 
Who reigns o'er windy Qilta, far away, 
To King Apollo, with the golden horns. 

CHORUS. 

Look how they cling about him ! Far, and near, 

The town breaks loose, and follows after, 

Crowding up the ringing ways. 

The boy forgets to watch the steer ; 

The grazing steer forgets to graze ; 

The shepherd leaves the herd ; 

The priest will leave the fane ; 

The deep heart of the land is stirr'd 

To sunny tears, and tearful laughter, 

To look into his face again. 

Burst, burst the brazen gates ? 

Throw open the hearths, and follow ! 

Let the shouts of the youths go up to Apollo, 

Lord of the graceful quiver : 

Till the tingling sky dilates — 

Dilates, and palpitates ; 

And, P^ean ! Ptean ! the virgins sing ; 

Piean ! Ptean ! the king ! the king ! 

Laden with spoils from Phrygia ! 

lo ! lo ! lo ! they sing 

Till the pillars of Olympus ring ; 

lo ! to Queen Ortygia, 

Whose double torch shall burn forever ! 

But thou, O Lord of the graceful quiver, 

Bid, bid thy Pythian splendour halt, 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 337 



Where'er he beams, surpassing sight ; 
Or on some ocean isthmus bent, 
Or wheel'd from the dark continent. 
Half-way down Heaven's rosy vault, 
Toward the dewy cone of night. 
Let not the breathless air grow dim, 
Until the whole land look at him ! 



SEMI-CHORUS. 



Stand back ! 



SEMI-CHORUS. 

Will he come this way ? 



SEMI-CHORUS. 



No ; by us. 



SEMI-CHORUS. • 

Gods, what a crowd ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

How firm the old men walk ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

There goes the king. I know him by his beard. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

And I, too, by the manner of his gait. 
That God-like spirit lifts him from the earth. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

How gray he looks ! 

SEMl-CHORUS. 

His cheek is seam'd with scars. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What a bull's front ! 
22 



.s;>8 ci.\rKiMNK!>rKA. 

llo siands up liko a towor. 

vSKMJ-OUOKlS. 

Ay, liko sonu> luovinji' towor i>t*nniuHl lutMi, 
Tliat i-avrios oinmuost iimlor c'ity- walls. 

sjou-niom s. 
llo litis lus suMImo hoail, and in his port 
Inwrs ou\inont authority. 

SI Mi-OHvnas. 

HohoKl, ^ 
llis spoar shows liko tho spimllo ota Vato ! 

SVMl OUOKl s. 

Oh, what an arm I 

sKMi-onoius. 

Most fit for siuh a swonl ; 
Look at that sworJ. 

sv^n-onoius. 

AVhat shouKlors I 

si:>ii-tMu>Krs. 

What a throat! 

s> Mi-ouoins. 
^Vhat aro thoso boarinii' ? 

vSK>ll-ClUMaS. 

Urns. 

si:>u-0JU>ius. 

Alas ! alas ! 

SlMl-tlUMU S. 

O frionds, look hoiv ! how aro tho miuhtv nion 



CLYrKMNKHTKA. 889 

Slirurik up into a littU; xhhc of (-hrih, 
A cliilfl rni;/lit lift.. Sfi'^atJi'd caoh in brazf;ri platoH, 
'l"h<;y w(;rit H*") }i<;avy, t,)i*;y oorrn; baok :-:o lij.'lit, 
.Sh<;atli''J, caoli one, in tli<5 brazf;n urrj of" 'J<;ath ! 

BKMI-CUOJ'.i;.H. 

Willi what, a HtaUiWtUiHn ha movcH along! 

Sf;f;, how th(;y touch his skirt, anfl f(rahj> his hand I 

hl-MI-C'IfOHi;H. 

Ih tliat th(i ({ucj'Ai '{ 

hI'.MI-CIfOJU;H. 

Ay, how hfio rnatoliCH him ! 
With what ;/ran(l <;yr;s hh*; look.-; u[>, full in hin ! 

.si.Mj-Mfo/:(;H. 
Say, what arc thcHC V 

HKMI-Cnoi'.f.H. 

O PhryjfianH I how they walk ! 
TIk; only nad men in the erowfi, I think. 

KK.Mi-ciro/c(;H. 

Hut who is thin, that with 8ueh Heornful hrow.s, 
Anf] looks avertcfJ, walk,« among the rcHt V 

hK.Mr-cno/{i;h. 
1 know not, hut homc Phrygian worrjan, sure. 

8KM/-eiIOK(;H. 

Tier heavy-fallen hair down her white neek 
(A 'lying Hunhf;am tarigl(;<l in each tresH) 
All its negh;et(;d h(;auty pours one way. 

Kic.Mi-riroiiC.h. 
Her looks bend ever on the alien ground 



340 CLYTEMNKSTRA. 

As tho' the stones of Troy were in her path. 
And in the painod paleness of her brow 
Sorrow hath made a regal tenement. 

SEMI-CUOKUS. 

Here comes Electra ; young Orestes, too ; 
See how he emulates his father's stride ! 

SEMI-CirORUS. 

Look at iEgisthus, where he walks apart, 
And bites his lip. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

I oft have seen him so 
When something chafes him in his bitter moods. 

SEMI-CIIOUUS. 

Peace, here they come ! 

CHOKUS. 

lo ! lo ! The Kinn ! 



XTT. AGAMEMNON, CLYTEMNESTRA, iEGISTHUS, 
ELECTRA, ORESTES, CASSANDRA, A PHOCIAN, 
CHORUS, SEMI-CHORUS, and others in the jJrocession. 

CLYTKM NESTR A. 

O blazing sun, that in thy skyey tower 

Pausest to see one kingly as thyself. 

Lend all thy brightest beams to light his head, 

And gild our gladness! Friends, behold the King! 

Now hath ^Etolian Jove, the arbiter 

Of conquests, well disposed the issues here ; 

For every night that brought not news from Troy 

Heap'd fear on fear, as waves succeed to waves, 

When Northern blasts blow white the Cretan 

main — 
Knowing that thou, for off, from toil to toil 
Climbedst, uncertain. Unto such an one 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 341 

His children, and young offspring of the house 

Arc as a field, ■which he, the husbandman, 

Owning far off, does only look upon 

At seed time once, nor then till harvest comes ; 

And his sad wife must wet with nightly tears 

Unsolaced pillows, fearing for his fate. 

To these how welcome, then, his glad return, 

When he, as thou, comes heavy with the weight 

'Of great achievements, and the spoils of time. 

AGAMEMNON. 

Enough ! enough ! we wx*igh you at full worth. 
And hold you dear, whose gladness equals yours ; 
But women ever err by over-talk. 
Silence to women, as the beard to men, 
Brings honour ; and plain truth is hurt, not help'd 
By many words. To each his separate sphere 
The Gods allot. To me the sounding camp. 
Steeds, and the oaken spear ; to you the hearth, 
Children, and household duties of the loom. 
'Tis man's to win an honourable name ; 
Woman's to keep it honourable still. 

CLYTKMNESTRA. 

(O beast ! O weakness of this womanhood ! 
To let these pompous male things strut in our eyes, 
And in their lordship lap themselves secure. 
Because the lots in life are fallen to them. 
Am I less heart and head, less blood and brain, 
Less force and feeling, pulse and passion — I — 
Than this self-worshipper — a lie all thro'?) 
Forgive if joy too long unloose our lips. 
Silent so long : your words fall on my soul 
As rain on thirsty lands, that feeds the dearth 
With blessed nourishment. My whole heart hears. 
You speaking thus, I would be silent ever. 

AGAMEMNON. 

Who is this man ? 



342 CLYTEMNESrilA. 



CLYTKMNKSTIJA. 

A Pliocian, bv his look. 



() lvini>-, from Strophius, and your sister's court, 
l)os|)aU'hM with this sealM tablet, and with gifts ; 
Tho' both oxpross, so says my royal Head, 
lint poorly the rich welcome they intend. 
AVill you see this ? — and these ? 

AOAIMKMNON. 

Anon ! anon ! 
We'll look at them Avithin. () child, thine eyes 
Look warmer welcome than all words express. 
Thou art mine own child by that royal brow. 
Nature hath niark'd thee mine. 



O Father ! 

Conic ! 



AGAMKIMNON. 



And our Orestes ! lie is nobly grown ; 
lie shall do great deeds when our own are dim. 
So shall men come to say " the lather's swonl 
In the son's hands hath hewn out nobler fame." 
Think of it, little one ! where is our cousin ? 

.KdisrniTs. 
Here ! And the keys of the Acropolis ? 

AC. AM KM NUN. 

O well ! this dust and heat are over much. 
And, cousin, you look pale. Anon ! anon ! 
Speak to US by and bye. Let business wait. 
Is our house order'd V we will take the bath. 



CLYTKMNESTRA. 843 



CLYTKMNKSTKA. 

Will you wltliin ? where all Is ordcrM fair 
J>(;fitl;inf]f state : cool chambers, marhle-floor'd 
Or piled Avitli Lla/inj^ carjxits, scented rare 
With the sweet spii-it of each odorous gum 
Tn dim, delicious, auiorous mists about 
Tlu; pur|)le-paven, silver-sided bath, 
JJeep, flashing, pure. 

ACAMKMNON. 

Look to our captives then. 
T charge you chiefly with this woman here, 
Cassand)'a, tlu; mad prophetess of Troy. 
See that you chafe her not in her wild moods. 



XIII. CLYTKMNESTRA. JCGISTHUS. 

CLYTICMNKSTJJA. 

Linger not ! 

What ? you will to-day — 

CLYTKMNE.ST11A. 

— This hour. 

.ICGISTirUS. 

Oh, if some chance mar all ! 

CLYTEMNKSTltA. 

AVe'll make chance sure. 
Doubt Is the doomsman of self-judged disgrace : 
But every chance brings safety to self-help. 

yKGISriIUS. 

Ay, but the means — the time — 



3-44 0LYT1.MXE8TKA. 



ri.\TKMNi:sTlJA. 

— Fulfil thomsolvos. 
O most Irrosoluto heart I is this a time 
^Viion thro* the a\vt'ul pauso ot" lito, distinct, 
Tho soiimllni:; shears ot" Fate slope near, to stand 
ISIeek, like tame wethers, and be shorn ? Ilow say 

you. 
The blithe Avind up. and the broad sea before him, 
AVho >vould eroueh all day louix beside the mast 
Counting- the surges beat his idle helm. 
Because between him anil the golden isles 
The siiadow of a passing storm might hang ? 
Danger, being pregnant, doth beget resolve. 

-v:oiSTnes. 
Thou Avert not born to tail, (live me thy hand. 

I l.\ n.MM-.STKA. 

T'ake it. 

-KOISTHIS. 

It iloes not ti^jmble. 

ei.\TKMNESTll.V. 

O be strong ! 
The t'uture hangs upon the die we cast : 
Fortune j^lavs high I'or us — 

.KGlSTlirS. 

Gods i:;rant she win ! 



XIV. ClIOKl'S. SKMI-CTIOIU'S. CASS.VNPKA. 

IIIOUIS. 

O thou that dost with globed glory 
Sweep the dark world at noon ot' night. 
Or an\ong snowy summits, wild, and hoary, 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 845 

Or thro' tlic iiii;:^lity silences 

Of iintnernorial hcjih, 

With all th(; stars heliind thee i\y'iU'^ white, 

tal<(; with thee, where'er 
Thou wan(ler(;st, ancient Care, 

AnrJ liide her in some iiiterlunar liaunt ; 

\Vher(j but th(; wild hird's chaunt 

Af, rii;-d)l, tliro' ro(.-ky ri(l;.';es ^aunt. 

Or inoanin^rs of" some homeUtss sea may find her. 

There, (ioddess, bar, and bind her ; 

Where she; may y)ine, but wand(;r not; 

Loatlie her haunts, but hjave them not; 

Wail and rave to the wind and wave 

'J'hat hear, yet understand her not; 

And curse h<;r cliains, yet cleave them not; 

And bate her lot, yet help it not. 

Or let her rove with Gods undone 

Who dwell below the setting sun, 

And the sad western hours 

That burn in fiery bowers; 

Or in Amphitrit(-'s grot 

Where the vexird tides unite, 

And the spent wind, howling, breaks 

O'er sullen oceans out of sight 

Among sea-snakes, tliat the white moon wakes 

Till they shake thcmiscjlves into diamond flakes, 

Coil and twine in the glittering brine 

And swing themselves in tlie long moonshine ; 

Or by wild shores lioarsely rage, 

And moan, ami v(!nt li(;r s[)ite, 

Jn some inhospitable liarbourage 

Of 'J'hracian waters, whit(i, 

'J'here let her grieve, and grieve, and hold her 

breath 
Until she hate herself to death. 

1 seem with rajjture lifted higher, 
Like one; in mystic trance. 

O l*an ! Pan ! Tan ! 
First friend of man, 



346 CLYTEMNESTRA. 

And founder of Heaven's choir, 

Come thou from old Cylleno, and inspire 

The Gnossian, and Nysrean dance ! 

Come thou, too, DeHan king, 

From the blue JEgean sea. 

And Mycone's yellow coast : 

Give my spirit such a -vving 

As there the foolish Icarus lost, 

That she may soar above the cope 

Of this high pinnacle of gladness, 

And dizzy height of hope ; 

And there, beyond all reach of sadness, 

May tune my lips to sing 

Great Pa'ans, full, and free. 

Till the "whole -world ring 

With such hcart-mcltiug madness 

As bards are taught by thee ! 

SEMI-CHOIU'S. 

Look to the sad Cassandra, how she stands ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

She turns not from the wringing of her hands. 

SEMI-CHOKUS. 

What is she doing ? 

SEMI-CHOKl'S. 

Look, her lips are moved ! 

SEMl-CHOUrS. 

And yet their motion shapes not any sound. 

SEMi-cnoiius. 
Speak to her. 

SEMI-CHOKUS. 

She will heed not. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 347 

SEMI-CHOKUS. 

But yet speak. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Unhappy woman, cease a little while 
From mourning. Recognize the work of Heaven. 
Troy smoulders. Think not of it. Let the past 
Be buried in the past. Tears mend it not. 
Fate may be kindlier, yet, than she appears. 

SEMI-CHOKUS. 

She does not answer. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Call to her again. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

O break this scornful silence ! Hear us speak. 
We would console you. 

SEIMI-CIIORUS. 

Look, how she is moved ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

O speak ! the heart's hurt oft is help'd by words. 

CASSANDRA. 

O Itys ! Itys ! Itys ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What a shriek ! 
She takes the language of the nightingale, 
Unhappy bird ! that mourns her perish'd form, 
And leans her breast against a thorn, all night. 

CASSANDRA. 

The bull is in the shambles. 



348 CLYTEMNESTRA. 



SEMI-CHORUS. 

Listen, friends ! 
She mutters something to herself. 

CASSANDRA. 

Alas! 
Did any name Apollo ? woe is me ! 

SEMI CHORUS. 

She calls upon the God. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Unhappy one, 
What sorrow strikes thee Avith bewilderment ? 

se:\ii-ciiorus. 
Now she is mute again. 

chorus. 

A Stygian cold 
Creeps thro' my limbs, and loosens every joint. 
The hot blood freezes in its arteries, 
And stagnates round the region of the heart. 
A cloud comes up from sooty Acheron, 
And clothes mine eyelids 
With infernal night. 
My hair stands up. 
What supernatural awe 
Shoots, shrivelling thro' me. 
To the marrow, and bone ? 
O dread, and wise Prophetic Powers, 
Whose strong-compelling law 
Doth hold in awe 
The labouring hours, 
Your intervention I invoke, 
My soul from this Avild doubt to save ; 
Whether you have 
Your dwelling in some dark, oracular cave, 



CLYTEMNESTllA. 349 

Or solemn, sacred oak ; 

Or in Dodona's ancient, lionour'd beech, 

Whose mystic boughs above 

Sat the wise dove ; 

Or if the tuneful voice of old 

Awake in Delos, to unfold 

Dark wisdom in ambiguous speech. 

Upon the verge of strange despair 

My heart grows dizzy. Now I seem 

Like one that dreams some ghastly dream, 

And cannot cast away his care. 

But harrows all the haggard air 

With his hard breath. Above, beneath, 

The empty silence seems to teem 

With apprehension. O declare 

What hidden thing doth Fate prepare, 

What hidden, horrible thing doth Fate prepare? 

For of some hidden grief my heart seems half aware. 



XV. CLYTEMNESTRA. CASSANDRA. CHORUS. 

clyte:mni:stka. 
One blow makes all sure. Ay, but then — beyond ? 
I cannot trammel up the future thus. 
And so forecast the time, as with one blow 
To break the hundred Hydra-heads of Chance. 
Beyond — beyond I dare not look, for who. 
If first he scann'd the space, would leap the gulf? 
One blow secures the moment. Oh, but he ... . 
Ay, there it lies ! I dread lest my love, being 
So much the stronger, scare his own to death ; 
As what they comprehend not, men abhor. 
He has a wavering nature, easily 
Unpoised ; and trembling ever on extremes. 
Oh, what if terror outweigh love, and love, 
Having defiled his countenance, take part 



350 CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Aoainst himself, self-loathed, a fallen God ? 

Ah, his was never yet the loving soul, 

But rather that which lets itself be loved ; 

As some loose lily leans npon a lake, 

Letting the lympii reilect it, as it will, 

Still idly sway'd, whichever way the stream 

Stirs the green tangles of the water moss. 

The llower of his love never bloom'd upright, 

But a sweet jiarasite, that loved to lean 

On stronger natures, winning strength from them — 

Not such a llower as whose delirious cup 

Maddens the bee, and never can give forth 

Enough ol' fragi'ance, yet is ever sweet. 

Yet which is sweetest — to receive or give V 

Sweet to receive, and sweet to give, in love ! 

When one is never sated that receives, 

Nor ever all exhausted one that gives. 

I think I love him more, that I resemble 

So little aught that pleases me in him. 

Perchance, if I dared (juestion this dark heart, 

'Tis not for him, but for n\ysclf in him. 

For that which is my softer self in him — 

I have done this, and this — and shall do more : 

Hoped, wept, dared wiUlly, and will overcome ! 

Does he not need me V It is sweet to think 

That I am all to him, whate'er I be 

To others; and to one — little, I know! 

But to him, all things — sceptre, sword, and crown ! 

For who would live, but to be loved by some one ? 

Be fair, but to give beauty to another? 

Or wise, but to instruct some sweet desire ? 

Or strong, but that thereby love may rejoice ? 

Or who for crime's sake would be criminal '? 

And yet for love's sake would not dare wild deeds ? 

A mutual necessity, one fear. 

One hope, and the strange posture of the time 

Unite us now; — but this need over-past, 

Oh, if, 'twixt his embrace and mine, there rise 

The reliex of a umrder'd head ! and he. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 351 

Remembering the crime, remember not 

It was for him that T am criminal, 

But rather hate me for the part he took — 

Against his soul, as he will say — in this ? — 

I will not think it. Upon this wild venture, 

Freighted with love's last wealthiest merchandise, 

My heart sets forth. To-morrow I shall wake 

A beggar, as it may l)e, or thrice rich. 

As one who plucks his last gem from his crown 

(Some pearl for which, in youth, he barter'd states), 

And, sacrificing with an anxious heart, 

Toward night puts seaward in a little bark 

For lands reported far beyond the sun. 

Trusting to win back kingdoms, or there drown — 

So I — and with like perilous endeavour ! 

Oh, but I think I could implore the Gods 

More fervently than ever, in my youth, 

I pray'd that help of Heaven 1 needed not, 

And lifted innocent hands to their great sky. 

So much to lose ... so much to gain ... so much . . . 

I dare not think how .... 

Ha, the Phrygian slave ! 
He dares to bring his mistress to the hearth ! 
She looks unhappy. I will speak to her. 
Perchance her hatred may approve my own, 
And help me in the work I am about. 
'Tvvere well to sound her. ^ 

Be not so cast down, 
Unhappy stranger ! Fear no jealous hand. 
In sorrow I, too, am not all untried. 
Our fortunes are not ho dissimilar. 
Slaves both — and of one master. 

Nay, approach ! 
Is my voice harsh in its appeal to thee V 
If so, believe me, it belies my heart. 
A woman speaks to thee. 

What, silent still V 
O look not on me Avith such sullen eyes, 
There is no accusation in my own. 



352 CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Rather on liim that brought thee, than on thee, 
Our scorn is settled. I would help thee. Come ! 
Mute still ? 

I know that shame is ever dumb, 
And ever weak ; but here is no reproach. 
Listen ! Thy fate is given to thy hands. 
Art thou a woman, and dost scorn contempt ? 
Art thou a captive, and dost loathe these bonds ? 
Art thou courageous, as men call thy race ? 
Or, helpless art thou, and wouldst overcome ? 
If so — look up ! For there is hope for thee. 
Give me thy hand — 

CASSANDRA. 

Pah ! there is blood on it ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

What is she raving of? 

CASSANDRA. 

The place, from old, 
Is evil. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Ay, there is a sickness, here, 
That needs the knife. 

CASSANDRA. 

Oh, horrible ! blood ! blood ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I see you are a Phrygian to the bone ! 
Coward, and slave ! be so for evermore ! 

CASSANDRA. 

Apollo ! O Apollo ! O blood ! blood ! 
The whole place swims with it ! The slippery steps^ 
Steam with the fumes! The rank air smells of 
blood ! 



CLYTEMNESTKA. 353 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 



Heed her not ! for she knows not what she says. 
This is some falling sickness of the souh 
Her fever frights itself 

CASSANDEA. 

It reeks ! it reeks ! 
It smokes ! it stifles ! blood ! blood, everywhere ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

See, he hath brought this mad woman from Troy, 
To shame our honour, and insult our care. 
Look to her, friends, my hands have other work ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas, the House of Tantalus is doom'd! 

CLYTEMKESTRA. 

The King sleeps — like an infant. His huge 

strength 
Holds slumber thrice as close as other men. 
How well he sleeps ! Make garlands for the 

Gods. 
I go to watch the couch. Cull every flower, 
And honour all the tutelary fanes 
With sacrifice as ample as our joy, 
Lest some one say we reverence not the Gods ! 



O doomed House and race ! 
O toilsome, toilsome horsemanship 
Of Pelops ; that ill omen brought to us ! 
For since the drowned Myrtilus 
Did from his golden chariot slip 
To his last sleep, below the deep, 
Nothing of sad calamitous disgrace 
Hath angry Heaven ceased to heap 
On this unhappy House of Tantalus. 
23 



354 CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Not only upon sacred leaves of old, 

Preserved in many a guarded, mystic fold, 

But sometimes, too, enroU'd 

On tablets lair 

Of stone, or brass, -vvltli (juaint and curious care, 

In characters of gold. 

And many an iron-bound, melancholy book, 

The wisdom of the wise is writ ; 

And hardly shall a man. 

For all he can. 

By painful, slow degrees, 

Anil nightly reveries 

Of long, laborious thought, grow learn'd in these. 

But who, that reads a woman's wily look, 

Shall say what evil hides, and lurks in it ? 

Or lathom her false wit ? 

For by a woman fell the man 

Who did Neuuva's pest destroy, 

And the brinded Hydra slew. 

And many other womlers wrought. 

By a woman, fated Troy 

Was overset, and fell to nought. 

Royal Amphiaraus, too. 

All his wisdom could not free 

From his false Eriphyle, 

Whom a golden necklace bought — 

So has it been, and so shall be, 

Ever since the world began ! 

O woman, woman, of what other earth 

Hath da?dal Nature moulded thee ? 

Tliou art not of our clay compact, 

Not of our common clay ; — 

But when the painful woild in labour lay — 

Labour long — and agony, 

In her heaving throes distract. 

And vext with angry Heaven's red ire, 

Nature, kneading snow and fire, 

In thy mystic being pent 



CLYTKMNESTRA. 355 

Each contrary element. 
Life and death within thee blent : 
All despair and all desire : 
There to min^rle and ferment. 
While, mad mid wives, at thy birth, 
Furies mixt with Sirens bent, 
Inter-wreathino; snakes and smiles — 
Fairest dreams and falsest guiles ! 

Such a splendid mischief thou ! 
With thy light of languid eyes : 
And thy bosom of pure snow : 
And thine heart of fire below, 
Whose red light doth come and go 
Ever o'er thy changeful cheek 
When love-whispers tremble weak : 
Thy warm lips and pensive sighs, 
That the breathless spirit bow : 
And the heavenward life that lies 
In the still serenities 
Of thy snowy, airy brow — 
Thine ethereal airy brow. 
Such a splendid mischief, thou ! 
What are all thy witcheries V 
All thine evil beauty V All 
Thy soft looks, and subtle smiles ? 
Tangled tresses ? Mad caresses 
Tendernesses ? tears and kisses V 
And the long look, between whiles 
That the helpless heart beguiles, 
Tranced in such a subtle thrall ? 
What are all thy sighs and smiles ? 
Fairest dreams and falsest guiles ! 
Hoofs to horses, teeth to lions, 
Horns to bulls, and speed to hares, 
To the fish to glide thro' waters. 
To the bird to glide thro' airs, 
Nature gave : to men gave courage. 
And the use of brazen spears. 



SaG CLYTEMNESTRA. 

What Mas loft to uivc to woman, 
All her gifts thus given ? Ah, tears, 
Smiles, ami kisses, whispers, glanees, 
Only these ; and merely beauty 
On her areheil brows nnfurl'd. 
Ami with these she shatters lanees, 
All unarmM binds armed Outy, 
And in triumph drags the world ! 



XVI. sEMi-ciioinis. rrioRus. cassandra. 

AGAMKMXON. CLVTEMNKS TKA. .EG18T11US. 

SKSU-OHOUUS. 

Break otV, break ofV! It seems T heard a ery! 



Surely one eall'd within the house. 
sEMi-enouus. 



Stand bv 



cnoKus. 
The Prophetess is troubled. Look, her eye 
llolls fearfully. 



SEMI-CHOUeS. 

Now all is husht onec more. 

OUOKITS. 

I hear the feet of some one at the door. 

(agamkmnon, icidiin.^ 
Murdress ! oh, oh ! 

sKMi-onouus. 

The house is fdl'd with shrieks. 

CUlUiUS. 

The sound deceives or that Avas the King's voice. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 357 

SEMI-CHOKUS. 

The voice of Agamemnon ! 

(AGAMEMNON, Vnthin.) 

Ai ! ai ! ai ! 

CASSANDRA. 

The bull is in the toils. 

(AGAMEMNON, WnVAm.) 

I will not die ! 

(yEGiSTHL'S, vnthin.) 
O Zeus ! he will escape ! 

( CLYTEMKESTKA, wiOdn. ) 

He has it. 

(AGAMEMNON, within.) 

Ai ! ai ! 

CHORUS. 

Some hideous deed is being done within. 
Burst in the doors ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

I cannot open them. 
Barr'd, barr'd within ! 

CASSANDRA. 

The axe is at the bull ! 



Call the elders. 



SEMI-CHORUS. 



And the People. O Argives! Argives! 
Alinon ! Alinon ! 



S58 CLYTEMNKSTIIA. 

ClIOUUS. 

You to tlio Agora. 

SKMI-ruOKUS. 

To tlio teniplos wo. 



OMOKUS. 

Iloarkcii, O mn'ulons ! 

sKsii-cnoiu's. 
This way. 

ciiouus. 
That way. 

SKMl-rilOlU'S. 

Quick ! quick ! 

OASSANOUA. 

Seal my sight, O Ai>ollo ! O Apollo ! 

1 noiuTs. 
To the Agora ! 

SEMI-CIIOKI'S. 

To the temples ! 

CHOKHS. 

Haste! haste! 

(AOAMKMNON, wilhitl.) 

Stabb'd, oh ! 

cnouus. 
Too late ! 

CASSAN1>KA. 

The bull is bellowing. 



CLYTEMNKSTIlA. 359 

( /I'/JISTIIUH, within. ) 
Thrust there again : 

( CLYTKMXKSTKA, v/dMn. ) 

One blow has done it all. 

(yi^iLSTirus, vithin. ) 
Is it quite thro' ? 

( CLYTEM NK.STIiA , V/itldn. ) 

He win not move again. 

BKMI-CHOKUS. 

O Heaven, and Eartli ! My heart stands still with 

awe ! 
Where will this murder end ? 

ciroRUft. 

Hold ! some one comes ! 

XVTT. ELECTRA. OKESTES. CHORUS. A PHO- 
CIAN. 

(KLKCTRA Uo/linfJ OltliSTES.) 

Save us ! save him — Orestes ! 

CIIOEUS. 

AVhat has fall'n ? 



An evil thing. Oh, we are fatherless ! 

cnoitus. 
Ill-starr'd Electra ! But how fell tlils chance ? 

KUCCTIiA. 

Hfire is no time for words — scarce time for flight. 
AVhcn from his royal bath the King would rise — 
Tliat devilish woman, lying long in lurk, 



360 CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Behind him crept, with stealthy feet unheard, 

And flung o'er all his limbs a subtle web. 

Caught in the craft of whose contrived folds, 

Stumbling, he fell, ^gisthus seized a sword ; 

But halted, half irresolute to strike. 

My father, like a lion in the toils. 

Upheaved his head, and, writhing, roar'd with 

wrath. 
And angry shame at this infernal snare. 
Almost he rent the blinding nets atwain. 
But Clytemnestra on him flung herself. 
And caught the steel, and smit him through the 

ribs. 
He slipp'd, and reel'd. She drove the weapon 

thro'. 
Piercing the heart ! 

CHORUS. 

O woe ! what tale is this ? 

ELECTKA. 

I, too, with him, had died, but for this child, 
And that high vengeance which is yet to be. 



Alas ! then Agamemnon is no more. 

Who stood, but now, amongst us, full of life, 

Crown'd with achieving years! The roof, and 

cope 
Of honour, fall'n ! Where shall we lift our eyes ? 
Where set renown ? Where garner up our hopes ? 
All worth is dying out. The land is dark, 
And Treason looks abroad in the eclipse. 
He did not die the death of men that live 
Such life as he lived, fall'n among his peers, 
AVhom the red battle roll'd away, while yet 
The shout of Gods was ringing thro' and thro' 

them; 
But Death that fear'd to front him in full field, 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 361 

Lurk'd by tlie hearth and smote him from behind. 
A mighty man is gone. A mighty grief 
Remains. And rumour of undying deeds 
For song, and legend, to the end of time ! 
What tower is strong ? 

ELECTRA. 

O friends — if friends you be — 
For who shall say where falsehood festers not, 
Those being falsest, who should most be true ? 
Where is that Phocian ? Let him take the boy, 
And bear him with him to his master's court. 
Else will ^gisthus slay him. 



Fear you not 



Orphan'd one, 



ORESTES. 

I am Agamemnon's son. 



CHORUS. 

Therefore should'st fear — 

ORESTES. 

And therefore cannot fear. 

PHOCIAN. 

I heard a cry. Did any call ? 

CHORUS. 

Oh, well ! 
You happen this way in the need of time. 



O loyal stranger, Agamemnon's child 

Is fatherless. This boy appeals to you. 

O save him, save him from his father's foes! 



362 CLYTK]M^'l:STRA. 



ruociAx. 
UnlKVji}>}- lady, what >Yil(l -words are these ? 

The house runs bUiod. .Kulsthus, like a (icnd, 
Is raii'luii; loose, his weapon dripping gore. 



Tiu> king is death 

I'UOtl.VN. 

Is dead ! 

KLKOTKA. 

Dead. 

rUOCIAN. 

Do I dream ? 

F.KKOTUA. 

Such dreams are dreamed in hell — such dreams — 

oh no ? 
Is not the earth as solid — heaven above — 
The sun In heaven — and Nature at her work — 
And men at theirs — the same ? Oh, no ! no 

dream ! 
Wo shall not wake — nor he ; tho' the Goils sleep ! 
Unnaturally murder'd — 

rmuMAN. 
JMurder'd ! 

KLECTKA. 

Ay. 

And the sun blackens not ; the world is green ; 
The fires of the reil west are not put out. 
Is not the cricket singing in the grass ? 
And the shy lizard shooting thro' the leaves ? 



CLYTKM.NKHTIIA. 363 

T }if;ar tho ox low In the laboured field. 
'J'ho.se swallows build, and ar<; as ^^arrulous 
IIi;_di up i' the towers. Yet J speak the truth ! 
l>y heaven I speak the truth — 



How died the kin; 



I'HOCIAN. 

Yet more, vouchsafe. 



KIJCCTUA. 

Oh, there shall be a time 
For words hereafter. While we dally here, 
Fate haunts, and hounds us. Friend, receive this 

boy. 
Jiear him to Strophius. All this tragedy 
Jtelate as best you may ; it beff^^ars speech. 
1 ell hijn a tower of hope is fall'n this day — 
A name in Greece — 

I'JIOrjIAN. 

— But you — 

j:lkc'j jiA. 

Away I away ! 
J)estruction posts apace, while we delay. 



Come then ! 

ELECTI'.A. 

I dare not leave my father's hearth. 
For who would then do honour to his urn V 
Jt may be that my womanhood, and youth 
May help me here. It may be J shall fall. 
And mix my own with A^^amemnon's blood. 
No matter. On Orestes hanj.^s the hope 
(Jf all this House. Him save for better days, 
And ripen'd vengeance. 



364 CLYTEMNKSTRA. 



PHOCIAN, 

Noblc-liearted one ! 
Come then, last ofls])ring of this fated race. 
The future calls thee ! 

ORESTKS. 

Sister ! Sister ! 

ELECTRA. 

Go! 



O Sister ! 

ELE(TKA. 

O my brother ! . . . One last kiss — 
One last lonp; kiss — how I have loved thee, boy ! 
Was it for this I nonrish'd thy youn<]j years 
With stately tales, and legends of the gods ? 
For this ? . . . How the past crowds upon me ! 

Ah— 
Wilt thou recall, in lonely, lonely hours. 
How once we sat together on still eves, 
(Ah me !) and brooded on all serious themes 
Of sweet, and high, and beautiful, and good, 
That throng the ancient years. Alcmena's son, 
And how his lil'e went out in fire on OEta ; 
Or of that bright-hair'd wanderer after fame, 
That brought the great gold-llcece across the sea. 
And left a name in Colchis ; or we spake 
Of the wise Theseus, councils, kingdoms, thrones, 
And laws in distant lands ; or, later still, 
Of the great leaguer set round Ilion, 
And what heart-stirring tidings of the war 
Bards brought to Hellas. But when I would breathe 
Thy father's name, didst thou not grasp my hand, 
And ii'lorious deeds shone round us like the stars 



CLYTEMXESTKA. 3G5 

That lit the dark world from a jj^reat way ofF, 
And died up into heaven, among the Gods V 



Sister, O Sister 



KLKCTRA. 

Ah, too long Ave linger. 
Away ! away ! 

I'irOCIAN. 

Come ! 

CHORUS. 

Heaven go with thee ! 
To Crissa points the hand of" Destiny. 



O boy, on thee Fate hangs an awful weight 
Of retribution ! Let thy father's ghost 
Forever whisper in thine ear. Be strong. 
About thee, yet unborn, thy mother wove 
The mystic web of life in such-like form 
That Agamemnon's spirit in thine eyes 
Seems living yet. His seal is set on thee ; 
And Pelops' ivory slioulder marks thee his. 
Thee, child, nor contests on the Isthmian plain, 
Nor sacred apple, nor green laurel-leaf. 
But graver deeds await. Forget not, son, 
Whose blood, unwash'd, defiles thy mother's doors ! 

CHORUS. 

O haste ! I hear a sound within the house. 

ELECTRA. 

Farewell, then, son of Agamemnon ! 



Come! 



366 CLYTEMNESTRA. 



XVIII. ELECTRA. CHORUS. .EGISTHUS. 

ELECTRA. 

Gone ! gone ! Ah saved ! . . . Oh fool, thou missest, 
here ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas, Electra, whitlier wilt thou go ? 

KLECTRA. 

Touch me not ! Come not near me ! Let me be ! 
For this day, which I hoped for, is not mine. 

CHORUS. 

See how she gathers round her all her robe, 
And sits apart with grief. Oh, can it be 
Great A<>amemnon is among the shades ? 

ELECTRA. 

Would I had grasp'd his skirt, and follow'd him ! 

CHOltUS. 

Alas ! there is an eminence of joy, 

Where Fate grows dizzy, being mounted there, 

And so tilts over on the other side ! 

O fallen, O follen 

The tower, which stood so high ! 

Whose base, and girth were strong i' the earth, 

Whose head was in the sky ! 

O fiiU'n that tower of noble power, 

That fill'd up every eye ! 

lie stood so sure, that noble tower ! 
To make secure, and fill with power. 
From length to length, the land of Greece ! 
In whose strong bulwarks all men saw, 
Garner'd on the lap of law, 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 367 

For dearth, or danger, spears of war, 
And harvest sheaves of peace ! 
O fall'n, O fall'n that lofty tower — 
The loftiest tower in Greece ! 

His brows he lift above the noon, 

Fill'd with the day, a noble tower ! 

Who took the sunshine, and the shower, 

And flung them back in merry scorn. 

Who now shall stand when tempests lower ? 

He was the first to catch the morn, 

The last to see the moon. 

O friends, he was a noble tower ! 

O friends, and fall'n so soon ! 

Ah, well ! lament ! lament ! 
His walls are rent, his bulwarks bent, 
And stoop'd that crested eminence, 
Which stood so high for our defence ! 
For our defence — to guard, and fence 
From all alarm of hurt and harm, 
The fulness of a land's content ! 
O fall'n away, fall'n at mid-day. 
And set before the sun is down. 
The highest height of our renown ! 

O overthrown, the ivory throne ! 
The spoils of war, the golden ci*own, 
And chiefest honour of the state ! 
O mourn with me ! what tower is free 
From over-topping destiny ? 
What strength is strong to fate ? 
O mourn with me ! when shall we see 
Another such, so good, so great ? 
Another such, to guard the state ? 

^GISTHUS. 

He should have staid to shout thro' Troy, or bellow 
With bulls in Ida— 



368 clytk:mi:stiia. 



oHouns. 

Look ! ul'iiiislluis t'onies ! 
Like some loan (isjor, having; ilipt in blood 
His (lrij)j>in<ij tiuiiis, and hot atliirst ibr more. 
His Inriil oyo-ball roHs, as tho' it swam 
Thro' saiiiiuinc lihns. He staggers, drnnk with rago 
And crazy uiisohief. 

.i:t;isrni;s. 

Hold ! lot no one stir ! 
I ohargo yon, all of von, who hear me s[)oak. 
Where may the boy Orestes lie oonoealeil? 
I hold tho life of each in gage for his. 
If any know Avhere now lie hides from ns, 
Let him beware, not rendering trne reply I 



The boy is Hod— 

KKKtrruA. 
— is saved ! 

.icousrurs. 

Eleotra here ! 
How moan yon ? What is this ? 

^ ELICCTH.V. 

Enough is left 
Of Agamemnon's blood to drown you in. 

.KoisTnus. 
You shall not trille with me, by my beard ! 
There's ju^ril in this pastime. Where's the boy ? 

Kl,KCTKA. 

Half-way to Phoois, Heaven helping him. 



.lausrnus. 
By the black Styx ! 



CLYTEMNE8TIIA. 369 



KiJxrniA. 

Take not the oath of fiods, 
Who art but half a nian, blaspheming coward ! 

^CGIHTHUS. 

lint you, by Heaven, if this be a sword, 
Shall not be any more — 

A slave to thee, 
J>hitid(;ring bloodshedder, tho' thou boast thyself 
As huge as (^ssa pih;d on Pelion, 
Or anything but that weak wretch thou art ! 
Oh, tliou hast only half done thy black work ! 
Thou should'st have slain the young lion with the 

old. 
Look that he come not back, and find himself 
Ungivcn food, and still the lion's share 1 

yi;f;isTni;H. 
Insolent ! but I know to seal thy lips — 

KMCC'lItA. 

— For thou art only strong among the weak. 
We know thou hast an aptitude lor blood. 
To take a woman's is an easy task, 
And one well worthy thee. 

TIXJIHXnUH. 

Oh, but for words ! 

KLKCTIIA. 

Yet, could'st thou feed on all the noble blood 
(){' god-like generations on this earth. 
It should not help thee to a hero's heart. 

CUOIiCH. 

O peace, Electra, but for pity's sake ! 
24 



370 CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Heap not his madness to such dangerous heights. 

ELECTRA. 

I will speak out my heart's scorn, tho' I die. 

.EGISTHUS. 

And thou shalt die, but not till 1 have tamed 
That stubborn spirit to a wish for lite. 

CHORUS. 

O cease, infatuate ! I hear the Queen. 

[By a movement of the Eccydcma the 2^olace is throum 
open, and disconrs Cl-yti;mkkstka standing over 
the body of AoAaiKMNON. 



XIX. CLYTEMNESTRA. CHORUS. iEGlSTHUS. 
ELECTRA. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Argives ! behold the man who was jour King ! 

CHORUS. 

Dead ! dead ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Not I, but Fate hath dealt this blow. 

CHORUS. 

Dead ! dead, alas ! look where he lies, O friends ! 
That noble head, and to be brought so low ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

He who set light by woman, with blind scorn, 
And held her with the beasts we sacrifice, 
Lies, by a woman sacrificed himself. 
This is high justice which appeals to you. 



CI.XTEMNESTRA. 371 



CHORUS. 

Alas ! alas ! I know not words for this ! 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

We are but as the instrument of heaven. 

Our work is not design, but destiny. 

A God directs the lightning to its fall ; 

It smites and slays, and passes other-where, 

Pure in its self, as when, in light, it left 

The bosom of Olympus, to its end. 

In this cold heart the Avrong of all the past 

Lies buried. I avenged, and 1 forgive. 

Honour him yet. He is a king, tho' fallen. 

CHORUS. 

Oh, how she sets Virtue's own crest on Crime, 
And stands there stern as Fate's wild arbitress ! 
Not any deed could make her less than great. 

CClytemnestra desceiuls the steps, and lays her hand 
on the arm of ^gisthus. J 

clytemxestra. 
Put up the sword ! Enough of blood is spilt. 

iEGISTIIUS. 

Hist ! Oh, not half — Orestes is escaped. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Sufficient for the future be that thought. 

What's done is well done. What's undone — yet 

more : 
Some thing still saved from crime. 

^GISTHUS. 

This lion's whelp 
Will work some mischief yet. 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

He is a child — 



372 OI-YTKMNICS'I'IIA. 

— Our own — \v(\ will bill w;ir upon ilic. strong. 
Mot upon inlanls. Litt lliis m.ilter n^st. 

/lOiilHTiniM. 

Oh, ever, In (lui wake of thy "rrcat will 
Lot nio stocr siirii ! and wc; will loavu behind 
(Jroat tracks of light upon tho wondering world. 
If but you err not lujrc-— 

« LVnilMNKSTKA. 

'rhos(^ ])alo-oycd grotips 1 
S(H^ how they huddle, slmdd(U-ing, and stand round ; 
As when sonic, mighty beast, the brindled lord 
or the rough woodside, sends his wild d(;ath-roar 
Up the shrill eaves, the nieajuM- di'iii/ens 
Of an(U(Uit woods, shy (Uhm*, and timorous hares, 
l*(H',r from the hairy thicki'ls, and shrink back. 
We fear'd the lion, and we smote him down. 
Now fear is over. Shall we turn aside 
'J\) harry ja.ckalls V Laugh! we have not langh'd 
So long, I think you have (bigotten liovv ! 
Have we no right lo laugh like other men ? 
]Ia ! l!a! I laugh. Now it is time lo laugh ! 

CMOKIIS. 

O awful sight! Look where the bloody sun, 
As tho' witii Agamemnon he were slain, 
Jiuns reeking, lurid, down the [)ala,i'e (loors ! 

('l.V'ri'.IMNIOS'l'H.V. 

O my belov'd ! Now will wc^ reign sublinn^ 
And set our foot upon the neck of Fortune ! 
And, for the rest — oh, much remains ! — For yon, 

( To /he (Mionis.) 
A mildm- sway, if mildly you submit 
'I\) our free servici^ and su|)remaey. 
Nor tax, nor toll, to carry »lim results 
Of distant war beytmd the ptM-ilous seas. 
But gateless justice in our halls of state, 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 373 

And peace in all the borders of our land ! 
For you — 

( To I'j.Kcri'HA, v'lio hdn lliroiim herself' upon the body 

of A(iAIM]';iMN(>N.) 

KI.IOC'I'IiA. 

Ob, hush ! What more remains to mo, 
But this dead harjd, wliose clasp is cold in mine V 
And all the halllcd mcmiory of the past, 
Buried with him V What more V 

ClA'TEMNKSTUA. 

— A mother's heart, 
If you will come to it. Free confidence. 
A liberal share in all our future hope. 
Now, more than ever — mutually weak — 
We stand in need, each of the other's love. 
Our lov(5 ! it shall not sacrifice thee, child. 
To wanton whims of war, as he, of old. 
Did thy dead sister. If you will not these, 
But answer love with scorn, why then — 



—What then ? 

CliYTKMNKSTKA. 

Safe silence. And permission to forget. 



XX. CHORUS. SEMI-CirORUS. CLYTEMNESTRA. 
CASSANDRA. iEGlSTHUS. 



What shall we sa}' ? What has been done ? 
Shed no tear ! Oh, shed no tear ! 
Ilanjjf up his harness in the sun ; 
The hooked car, and barbed spear ; 



374 CLYTEMNESTRA. 

And all war's adamantine gear 

Of tropliied spoils ; for all his toils 

Are over, alas ! are over, and done ! 

What shall we say? what has been done ? 

Shed no tear ! 6, shed no tear ! 

But keep solemn silence all, 

As befits when heroes fall ; 

Solemn as his fame is ; sad 

As his end was ; earth shall Avear 

Mourning for him. See, the sun 

Blushes red for what is done ! 

And the wild stars, one by one, 

Peer out of the lurid air, 

And shrink back Avith awe, and fear, 

Shuddering, for what is done. 

When the night comes, dark, and dun, 

As our sorrow ; blackness far 

Shutting out the crimson sun ; v 

Turn his face to the moon, and star, — 

These are bright as his glories are — 

And great Heaven shall see its son ! 

What shall Ave say ? Avhat has been done ? 

Shed no tear ! oh, shed no tear ! 

Gather round him, friends ! Look here ! 

All the wreaths Avhich he hath Avon 

In the race that he* hath run — 

Laurel garlands, every one ! 

These are things to think upon, 

Mourning till the set of sun — 

Till the mourning moon appear. 

Now the Avreaths Avhicli Fame begun 

To uplift, to crown his head, 

Memory shall seize upon, 

And make chaplets for his bier. 

He shall have Avreaths tho' he be dead ! 

But his monument is here. 

Built up in our hearts, and dear 

To all honour. Shed no tear ! 

Oh, let not any tear be shed ! 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 375 



SEMI-CIIORUS. 

Look at Cassandra ! she is stooping down. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

She dips and moves her fingers in the blood ! 

SEMI-CIIORUS. 

Look to her ! There's a wildness in her eye ! 

SEMI-CIIORUS. 

What does she ? 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Oh, in Agamemnon's blood, 
She hath writ Orestes on the palace steps ! 



^Sjisthus 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 



iEGISTHUS. 

Queen and bride ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

We have not fail'd. 



Come, venerable, ancient Night ! 
From sources of the western stars. 
In darkest shade that fits this woe. 
Consoler of a thousand griefs, 
And likest death unalterably calm. 
We toil, aspire, and sorrow. 
And in a little while shall cease. 
For we know not whence we came. 
And who can ensure the morrow ? 
Thou, eternally the same, 
From of old, in endless peace 
Eternally survivest ; 



876 CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Endurinp; on thro' good and ill, 

Coeval with the Gods ; and still 

In thine own silence livest. 

Our days thou leadest home 

To the great Whither which has no Again ! 

Impartially to pleasure and to pain 

Thou sett'st the bourne. To thee shall all thlno-s 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 

But, if he cease to love me, what is gain'd ? 

CASSANDRA. 

With wings darkly spreading, 

Like ravens to the carcass 

Scenting far off the savour of blood. 

From shores of the unutterable lliver, 

They gather and swoop. 

They waver, they darken. 

From the fangs that raven, 

From the eyes that glare 

Intolerably fierce. 

Save me, Apollo ! 

Ai ! Ai ! Ai ! 

Alinon ! Alinon ! 

Blood, blood ! and of kindred nature, 

Which the young wolf returning 

Shall dip his fangs in. 

Thereby accursedly 

Imbibing madness ! 



The wild woman is uttering strange things 
Fearful to listen to. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Within the House 
Straightway confine her, 
There to learn wisdom. 



CLYTEMNESTRA. 377 



.EGISTRUS. 

Orestes — oli, this child's life now outweighs 
That mighty ruin, Agamemnon dead ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

^Egisthus, dost thou love me ? 

iEGISTHUS. 

As my life ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Thou lovest me ! O love, we have not fail'd. 
Give me thy hand. So . . . lead me to the House. 
Let me lean on thee. I am very weak. 

CHORUS. 

Only Heaven is high. 

Only the Gods are great. 

Above the searchless sky, 

In unremoved state, 

They from their golden mansions, 

Look over the lands, and the seas ; 

The ocean's wide expansions, 

And the earth's varieties : 

Secure of their supremacy. 

And sure of affluent ease. 

Who shall say " I stand ! " nor fall ? 

Destiny is over all ! 

Rust will crumble old renown. 

Bust and column tumble down ; 

Keep, and castle ; tower, and town ; 

Throne, and sceptre ; crest and crown. 

Destiny is over all ! 

One by one, the pale guests fall 

At lighted feast, in palace hall ; 

And feast is turn'd to funeral. 

Who shall say " I stand ! " nor fall ? 

Destiny is over all ! 



378 GOOD-NIGHT IN THE PORCH. 



GOOD-NIGHT IN THE PORCH. 

A LITTLE longer in the light, love, let me be. The 

air is warm. 
I hear the cuckoo's last good-night float from the 

copse below the Farm. 
A little longer, Sister sweet — your hand in mine — 

on this old seat. 

In yon red gable, which the rose creeps round and 

o'er, your casement shines 
Against the yellow west, o'er those forlorn and 

solitary pines. 
The long, long day is nearly done. How silent all 

the place is grown ! 

The stagnant levels, one and all, are burning in 

the distant marsh — 
Hark ! 'twas the bittern's parting call. The frogs 

are out : with murmurs harsh 
The low reeds vibrate. See ! the sun catches the 

long pools one by one. 

A moment, and those orange flats will turn dead 

gray or lurid white. 
Look up ! o'erhead the winnowing bats are come 

and gone, eluding sight. 
The little worms are out. The snails begin to 

move down shining trails. 

With slow pink cones, and soft wet horns. The 
garden-bowers are dim with dew. 

With sparkling drops the white-rose thorns are 
twinkling, where the sun slips thro' 

Those reefs of coral buds hung free below the 
purple Judas-tree. 



GOOD-NIGHT IN THE PORCH. 379 

From the warm upland comes a gust made fragrant 

with the brown hay there. 
The meek cows, with their white horns thrust above 

the hedge, stand still and stare. 
The steaming horses from the wains droop o'er the 

tank their plaited manes. 

And o'er yon hill-side brown and barren (where 

you and I as children play'd, 
Starting the rabbit to his warren), I hear the sandy, 

shrill cascade 
Leap down upon the vale, and spill his heart out 

round the muffled mill. 

O can it be for nothing only that God has shown 

his world to me ? 
Or but to leave the heart more lonely with loss of 

beauty . . . can it be ? 
() closer, closer. Sister dear . . . nay, I have kist 

away that tear. 

God bless you, Dear, for that kind thought which 

only upon tears could rise ! 
God bless you for the love that sought to hide them 

in those drooping eyes, 
Whose lids I kiss ! . . . poor lids, so red ! but let my 

kiss fall there instead. 

Yes sad indeed it seems, each night — and sadder, 

Dear, for your sweet sake ! 
To watch the last low lingering light, and know 

not where the morn may break. 
To-night we sit together here. To-morrow night 

will come .... ah, where ? 

O child ! howe'cr assured be faith, to say farewell 

is fraught with gloom, 
When, like one flower, the germs of death and 

genius ripen toward the tomb ; 



380 GOOD-NKillT IN THE rORCII. 

And earth each day, as some fond face at parting, 
gains a graver grace. 

Tliere's not a flower, there's not a tree in this ohl 

garden where we sit, 
]5ut wliat some fragrant memory is closed and folded 

up in it. 
To-night the dog-rose smells as wild, as fresh, as 

when I was a child. 

'Tis eight years since (do you forget ?) we set those 

lilies near the wall : 
You were a blue-eyed child : even yet I seem to 

see the ringlets fall — 
The golden ringlets, blown behind your shoulders 

in the nien-y Avind. 

Ah, nie ! old limes, they cling, they cling ! And 

oft by yonder green old gate 
The field shows thro,' in morns of sj^ring, an eager 

boy, I paused elate 
With all sweet fancies loos'd from school. And oft, 

you know, when eves were cool. 

In sunnner-time, and thro' the trees young gnats 

began to be about. 
With some old book upon your knees 'twas here 

you watch'd the stars come out. 
While oft, to please me, you sang thro' some foolish 

song I made for you. 

And there's my epic — I began when life seem'd 

long, tho' longer art — 
And all the glorious deeds of man made golden riot 

in my heart — 
Eight books ... it will not number nine ! I die 

before my heroine. 

Sister! they say that drowning men in one wild 
moment can recall 



GOOD-NIGIIT IN THE PORCn. 381 

Tlieir wliole life lon^, and feel again the pain — the 

bliss — that tlirong'd it all : — 
Last night those phantoms of the Past again came 

crowding round me fast. 

Near morning, when the lamp was low, against the 

wall they seem'd to flit ; 
And, as the wavering light would glow or fall, they 

came and went with it. 
The ghost of boyhood seem'd to gaze down the dark 

verge of vanisht days. 

Once more the garden where she walk'd on sum- 
mer eves to tend her flowers, 

Once more the lawn where first we talk'd of future 
years in twilight hours 

Arose ; once more slie seem'd to pass before me in 
the waving grass 

To that old terrace ; her bright hair about her warm 

neck all undone, 
And waving on the balmy air, with tinges of the 

dying sun. 
Just one star kindling in the west : just one bird 

singing near its nest. 

So lovely, so beloved ! Oh, fair as tho' that sun had 

never set 
Which staid upon her golden hair, in dreams I 

seem to see her yet ! 
To see her in that old green place — the same husht, 



A little older, love, than you are now ; and I was 

then a boy ; 
And wild and wayward-hearted too; to her my 

passion was a toy, 
Soon broken ! ah, a foolish thing — a butterfly with 

crumpled wing ! 



882 GOOD-NIGIIT IN THE PORCH. 

Pier hair, too, was like yours — as bright, but with a 

warmer golden tinge : 
Her eyes — a somewhat deeper hght, and dream'd 

below a longer fringe : 
And still that strange grave smile she had stays in 

my heart and keeps it sad ! 

There's no one knoAvs it, truest friend, but you : for 
I have never breath'd 

To other ears the frozen end of those spring-gar- 
lands Hope onee wreath'd ; 

And death Avill come before again I breathe that 
name untouch'd by pain. 

From little things— a star, a flower — that touch'd 

us with the self-same thought. 
My passion deepen'd hour by hour, until to that 

fierce heat 'twas Avrought, 
Which, shrivelling over every nerve, crumbled the 

outworks of reserve. 

I told her then, in that wild time, the love I knew 

she long had seen ; 
The accusing ])ain that burn'd like crime, yet left 

me nobler than I had been ; 
What matter with what words I woo'd her ? She 

said 1 had misunderstood her. 

And something more — small matter what! of 
friendship something — sister's love — 

She said that I was young — knew not my own 
heart — as the years would prove — ~ 

She wish'd me hajipy — she conceived an interest 
in me — and believed 

I should grow up to something great — and soon for- 
get her — soon ibrget 

This fancy — and congratulate my life she had re- 
leased it, yet — 



GOOD-NIGHT IN THE PORCH. 383 

With more such words — a lie ! a lie ! She broke 
my heart, and flung it by ! 

A life's libation lifted up, from her proud lip she 

dash'd untasted : 
There trampled lay love's costly cup, and in the 

dust the wine was wasted. 
She knew I could not pour such wine again at any 

other shrine. 

Then I remember a numb mood : mad murmurings 

of the words she said : 
A slow shame smouldering through my blood; that 

surged and sung within my head : 
And drunken sunlights reeling thro' the leaves: 

above, the burnish't blue 

Hot on my eyes — a blazing shield : a noise among 

the waterfalls : 
A free croAv up the brown cornfield floating at will : 

faint shepherd-calls : 
And. reapers reaping in the shocks of gold : and 

girls with purple frocks : 

All which the more confused my brain : and noth- 
ing could 1 realize 

But the great fact of my own pain : I saw the 
fields : I heard the cries : 

The crow's shade dwindled up the hill : the world 
went on : my heart stood slill. 

I thought I held in my hot hand my life crusht up : 

I could have tost 
The crumpled riddle from me, and laugh'd loud to 

think what I had lost. 
A bitter strength was in my mind: like Samson, 

when she scorned him — blind. 

And casting reckless arms about the props of life to 
hue: them down — 



384 GOOD-NIGIIT IN THE PORCH. 

A madman with his eyes put out. But all my 

anger -svas my own. 
I spared the worm u))on my walk : I left the white 

rose on its stalk. 

All's over long since. Was it strange that I was 

mad with griut* and shame '? 
And I would cross the seas, and change my ancient 

home, my father's name V 
In the wild hope, if that might be, to change my 

own identity ! 

I know that I was wrong: I know it was not well 
to be so wild. 

But the scorn stung so ! . . . Pity now could Avound 
not ! . . . I have seen her child : 

It had the self-same eyes she had : their gazing al- 
most made me mad. 

Dark violet eyes whose glances, deep with April- 
hints of sunny tears, 

'Neath long soft lashes laid asleep, seem'd all too 
thoughtful for her years; 

As tho' from mine her gaze had caught the secret 
of some mournful thought. 

But, when she spoke her fother's air broke o'er her 

. . . that clear confident voice ! 
Some happy souls there are, that wear their nature 

lightly ; these rejoice 
The world by living ; and receive from all men 

more than what they give. 

One handful of their buoyant chaff exceeds our 

hoards of careful grain : 
Because their love breaks thro' their laugh, while 

ours is fraught with tender pain : 
The world, that knows itself too sad, is proud to 

keep some faces glad : 



GOOD-NIGHT IN THE PORCH. 385 

And, so it is ! from such an one Misfortune softly 

steps aside 
To let him still walk in the sun. These things 

must be. I cannot chide. 
Had I been she I might have made the selfsame 

choice. She shunn'd the shade. 

To some men God hath given laughter : but tears 

to some men He hath given : 
He bade us sow in tears, hereafter to harvest 

holier smiles in Heaven : 
And tears and smiles, they are His gift : both good, 

to smite or to uplift : 

Pie knows His sheep : the wind and showers beat 
not too sharply the shorn lamb : 

His wisdom is more wise than ours : He knew my 
nature — what I am : 

He tempers smiles with tears : both good, to bear 
in time the Christian mood. 

O yet — in scorn of mean relief, let Sorrow bear 
her heavenly fruit ! 

Better the wildest hour of grief than the low pas- 
time of the brute ! 

Better to weep, for He wept too, than laugh as 
every fool can do ! 

For sure, 'twere best to bear the cross ; nor lightly 

fling the thorns behind ; 
Lest we grow happy by the loss of what was noblest 

in the mind. 
— Here — in the ruins of my years — Father, I bless 

Thee thro' these tears ! 

It was in the far foreign lands this sickness came 
upon me first. 
25 



38G GOOD-NIGHT IN THE POKCII. 

Below strange suns, 'mid alien hands this fever of 

the south was nurst, ' 
Until it reach'd some vital part. I die not of a 

broken heart. 

O think not that ! If I could live . . . there's much 

to live for — worthy life. 
It is not for what fame could give — tho' that I scorn 

not — but the strife 
Were noble for its own sake too. I thought that T 

had much to do — 

But God is wisest ! Hark, again ! . . . 'twas yon 

black bittern, as he rose 
Against the wild light o'er the fen. How red your 

little casement glows ! 
The night falls last, llow lonely. Dear, this bleak 

old house will look next year ! 

So sad a thought ? . . . ah, yes ! I kuow it is not 
good to brood on this : 

And yet — such thoughts will come and go, unbid- 
den. 'Tis that you should miss. 

My darling, one familiar tone of this weak voice 
when I am gone. 

And, for what's past — I will not say in what she did 

that all was right, 
But all's forgiven ; and I pray for her heart's wel- 

iare, day and night. 
All things are changed ! This cheek would glow 

even near hers but faintly now ! 

Thou — God ! before whose sleepless eye not even 

in vain the sparrows fall, 
Receive, sustain me ! Sanctify my soul. Thou 

know'st, Thou lovest all. 
Too weak to walk alone — I see Thy hand : I falter 

back to Thee. 



GOOD-NIGIIT IX THE PORCH. 387 

Saved from the curse of time which throws its 
baseness on us tlay by day : 

Its wretched joys, and worthless woes ; till all the 
heart is worn away. 

I feel Thee near. I liold my breath, by the half- 
open doors of Death. 

And sometimes, glimpses from within of glory 

(wondrous sight and sound !) 
Float near me : — faces pure from sin ; strange 

music ; saints with splendor crown'd : 
I seem to feel my native air blow down from some 

high region there. 

And fan my spirit pure : I rise above the sense of 

loss and pain : 
Faint forms that lured my cl)ildhood's eyes, long 

lost, I seem to find again : 
I see the end of all : I feel hope, awe, no language 

can reveal. 

Forgive me, Lord, if overmuch I loved that form 

Thou mad'st so fair ; 
I know that Thou didst make her such ; and fair 

but as the flowers were — 
Thy work : her beauty was but Thine ; the human 

less than the divine. 

My life hath been one search for Thee 'mid thorns 
found red with Thy dear blood : 

In many a dark Gethsemane I seem'd to stand 
where Thou hadst stood : 

And, scorn'd in this world's Judgment-Place, at 
times, thro' tears, to catch Thy face. 

Thou suffered'st here, and didst not fail : Thy 
bleeding feet these paths have trod : 

But Thou wert strong, and I am frail : and I am 
man, and Thou v/ert God. 



l>o noar n\o : koon mo in Thv si^lit : or lav niv soul 
asloop in liu;l>t. 

O to bo whoiv tho ujoanost mind is nioro than 

Sliakosnoaiv I whoiv ono loi^k 
Sho>YS moro tuan hoiv tho wiso oau tin^l. tho' toil- 

inu' s^low t'»\>ni hook to hook ! 
Whoiv lito is knmvloiliio : lovo is sure : and hopo's 

hriot* proniiso niailo soouro. 

dyinof voioo ot' human praiso I tlu> orudo ambitions 

i^t' mv youth I 

1 loui;- to pour inunortal h»ys ! groat pawns ot' poivn- 

nial Truth ! 
A largor work I a U>t)ior aiu\ ! . . . auil what aro 
h\uivl-loa\ OS, and tamo ? 

And what aro words? How httlo thoso tlio siUMU'O 

ot" tho soul oxpross I 
Moro t'lvth — tho llvun and tlowor of soas whoso 

huniivriuji- watoi's hoavo and pi\'ss 
AsjJiinst tho planots and tho sidos ot night — muto, 

yoarning. mystio tidos I 

To oaso tho hoart with song is sw oot : swoot to bo 

hoal^l it' hoaiil by lovo. 
Auil you havo hoaril mo. Whoji wo moot shall wo 

not sing tho old sv>ng-s abovo 
To grandor u\usio ':* Swoot, ono kiss. (.) blest it 

is to dio liko this I 

To lapso t'rom boing without pain : your hand in 

mine, on mino your hoart : 
Tho unshakon t'aith to moot again that shoaths tho 

pang with whioh wo part : 
My hoaii upon your Uxsotu, swoot : yonr hand in 

uiino, on this old soat I 



'JUK kahi.'h jit'/n:us. .'{80 

So; cIoHJif wififj tljat, l(;n'l<-.r arrn . . . Jfow iFir; liot 

i.c.nfH fall I J>o not wcj'.p, 
r>(;lov'(J, hut h;t your «uiilo «tay warm about ruo. 

" In tli(t I^omJ tlnty hlccp." 
Vou know tli(; wonJH tlui Scripture haitli . , . O 

li;/lit, (ilory !...!« tluM 'J«;ath V 



'JJli: KAKL'S HJ/rciix. 

l{.Af;(;Ki> an<l tall Htood the rrantlo wall. 

And \\i<', Hfjuir<!H, at tli(;ir Hjjort, in tli<; f/rc/dt South 

(Jourt, 
I.oun^'<;rJ all (Jay Ion;: from ntablci to liall 
Lau;.'l)in;.'ly, lazily, orj<; and all. 
'IIk! land ahr^Jt wa.s harr<;n and lilu<i, 
And n\v<'.\)\. by tin; win;; of thf; wet Hoa-mew. 
S(;v<;n fiHiicrmcn'H hutH on a klnjlly hIioh; : 
Sand-lM-apH behind, and Hand-bankH bfifon; : 
ArifJ a black ohanif)ai;.'ne ntreakcd wliit<; all thro* 
To a ;.'r<;at salt [)Ool which the ocean drew, 
Suek'd into itself", and <JiH;.'or;/(;(J it a;rain 
To Hla;/nate and 8t<fam on the mineral [jlain ; 
Not a tre(; or a bush in the eirrrle of si^^ht, 
Jiut a bare, black thorn which the Hea-winds had 

wither'd 
With th(i drifting; Hcum of th<; nurf and bli^^ht, 
And Home fiatclicH of ;jrray ;;raHH-land to th(? ri^^lit, 
\Vh(;re the lean red-hid«;d cattle were Uither'd : 
A reef of rock w(;d;red th<; water in twain, 
And a «tout wtont; tower Htood nquare to the main. 

And thf; flakes of tfie spray tfiat were jerk'fJ away 
I''rom the froth on the lif) of the; bh^ak blue sea 
Wen; Hometimc,.s flun;; by the wind, as it swung 
Over turr(;t and terrace and balcony, 



^;'U Till' FAKl S KirVKN. 

To tho >i;\nlon boloNV wIumv, in ilosolato oonioi^ 

rmiiM" the mossv oroon mrapot thoiv, 

PUo lilies ervnieiiM. iwking their white heads like 

mournei-s. 
And InirnM otV the heads ot' the tlowers that ^Yero 
riuiuixaiul pale in their eoiut'ortless bowei*s, 
Prv-bushM with the sharp stubborn lavender, 
And paven with disks ot" the torn snn-tlowers, 
^^'hi^•h, dav by day, were stranuled, and stripp'd 
Ot their ravelling; trin>ies and bra/en bosses. 
And the hanly nu\ry-buds nippM and ripp'd 
Into shreds tor the beetles that InrkM in the 



Here she lived alone, and t'j\Mn year to year 
She saw the blaek belt of the oeean appear 
At her easen\ent eaoh nu">rn as she rose ; and eaeh 

morn 
Uer eye tell tii-st on the baiv blaek thorn. 
This was all : nothing more : or sometimes on the 

shore 
The tlshennen san^r when the tishioi; was o'er; 
Or the lowing ot' oxen t'ell ilreamily. 
Close on the shut ot' the glimmering eves, 
Thiv' some gusty pause ii\ the moaning sea, 
AVhen the pools woiv splash'd pink by the thiivty 

beeves. 
Or sometimes, when the pearl-lighted morns divw 

the tinges 
Ot' the eold sunrise np their amber t'ringes, 
A white sail peerM over the rim ot' the main, 
Look'd all about o'er the en\pty sea. 
Stagger'd baek t'rom the tine line ot' white light 

ag-aiti. 
And di\tpp*d down to another world silently. 
Then she breath'd t'reer. With siekening dread 
She had wateh'd tlve pale young moons nnt'oUl 
Fivn\ their notehy eaveru in light, and spread 



'JIIK KAKI/S JtK'J CJIN. '3'Jl 

'J'o t.li(; fuller li;^ht, and n<i'<un r^row old, 
And dvvitKJlo away to a luminous shro.d. 
" J Jo will not corne back till the Spring's green 

and gold. 
" And I would that I with the leaves were dead, 
"Quiet sotmiwhcre with thern in the moss and the 

mould, 
" When he and the summer come this way," she 

said. 

And when the dull sky darken'd down to the 

edo<.s, 
And th(; keen frost kindled in star and spar, 
'J'he sea ntigliL be known by a noise on the ledges 
Of th(i long crags, gathering pow(;r from afar 
Thro' his roaring bays, and crawling back 
Hissing, as o'er the wet pebbles he dragg'd 
Jlis skirt of" foam fray'd, dripfjing, and jagg'd, 
And reluctantly fell down the smooth hollow shell 
(>{' th(; night, whose lustrous surface of black 
J II sf)Ots to an intense blue; was worn, 
liut later, when up on the sullen sea-bar 
'i'he wide large-lighted moon liad arisen. 
Where the dark and voluminous ocean grew 

luminous, 
IJel[)ing aft(;r her slowly one little shy star 
That shook blue in the cold, and look'd forlorn, 
The clouds were troubled, and the wind from his 

prison 
Behind them leap'd down with a light laugh of 

scorn ; 
Than th(i last thing she saw was that bare black 

thorn ; 
For the forked tree as the bleak blast took it, 
Ilowl'd thro' it, and beat it, and bit it, and shook it, 
S(;em'd to visibly waste and wither and wi/cn. 

And the snow was lifted into the air 
Layer by layer, 



S5>^ lUK KAKlV KKll KN. 

And (uvwM u\tv> Vs\st wluto olovuls that tlow 

v'^ilont iuul tloot ui> tho sky, nuvi wimv rivoii 

Aiul jork\i into imuj^ius wluoh tho sun lortpM llu\>\ 

0{H>»\inii onstal gnlts of ;» luvorv Hno 

Tovl AYvt1» miuy lii>htsof (ho Apnl hojwon. 

l''.\>n\ iwvos {U\d lovuos (ho i\uivoriniV ^Unv 

Sivu'kU\l otV; rtuvi (ho rioh oju*(h. blju^k a»ul K^itv, 

NV.^s stiU'vM witli snow-<li\^jv«j ovorvwhoiv; 

Ai\d tho oiwus n|>t\ir»\\i its (kuno, ntvvl InvrtiM 

llojv rtn»i (how. 

**Tho Siuninor." sho s;M»k "v\Mi\o(h bh(l\o «nil 

K>Ki ; 
Ami tho oi\HMts is lit tor hor wolooiuinij; 
Vuvl tho il;»vs will luuo gju*monts i^t' pnrplo ;unl 

gvUl : 
Inu I »onUl Iv loti bv tho |v\lo gwon Sj^rit^ij 
N\ ith (ho snow-ilivps svxnxowhoro umlor (hontould; 
" For I ikniv not thit\k what tho Svnnuu>r ni»Y 

bring." 

r.Uo sho wns jk< tho br.r.nblo bUnnns 

That (ill tho louij tioKls with thoir taint port\unos, 

NVl»on tho Ms\v-wind tlits tinoly tluv* snn-thiwuloii 

shvnvors, 
r>ivathinji' low tv> hintsolt' iii his dim mojulow- 

Unvoi^s. 
Ai\il hor ohook t\noh voar wc»s ^v>lor and thint\*>r. 
And whito as (ho poarl (liat was hm\u »'»t b^'«* <^»«*. 
As lior sad hoart siokonM and jnnovl within hor. 
And t'ailM anvl t'aintod t'i\Mn yoar to yi^u\ 
S,^ that tho Soi\osv>l»al. ixnigh ai\d gray, 
Saivl. a->5 ho UxxkM in hor taoo ono day. 
" St. Cathorino j^avo all gvKxl soids I pray, 
For onr ^vdo vonng lady is |vding away. 
O tho Svunts,*^ ho s.ud. smiling bittor and grim, 
" Know sho's tw (air and (vh> gwxl (br hi»n I " 
Svnnotimos v<ho walkM on (ho np(vr U\ids» 
Auvl U\u\\i o»\ tho arm ot' tho woathoi^woru 

\V anion. 



inf. KAtu'h iHf/ttM%. %i)*4 

Hound'mu'M nlia mi *iw\xi thtt tniUUiwy \h'jU 

Jill ih<'. roitUne^ \tUMnm itiiit ky thick on the 

And til'; MJuHiUnt nU'.aKi oi iUti If.Hvt^, aiA fetalkij 

M;id<; fh<} <;oJI">i int^mory, tminh ntnl ('Jt\ti^ 

'J \,:x\, nU'^ti in h<;r h/c.ar't lik<i a <Jr<;ai/«Jnj/ f.uakti, 

hi'twf.'ily Wit. hn*'M' ihUi \/y ioUi, 

Aii'i '^unYt iuA iinnw hungrily, UaU'-fiWixkc,. 

H<rtutiiUtH',n nhii Uf^fk'd i'roui fJi<; window \m\ow 

'V(t tUa iiriini Houth (U/Ufi., and lfi<; «!/juir<;is, at their 

J/winj/inj/)y UAUinuii t/t and fro. 

hli<; Ui'/Atd iUii iinM/tttn iUtira m ihfty tmru*d on« 

anoth«;r. 
8h<i liCHi'ii l\it', ^it'i'.at \f(fViih fiillinj/ all d^y long 
In th<; U^wlinj/ aWi'.y*.. Sl«; h<;ard il</; »;^^nj( 
or thrj y,\upfk'\H'/d(U'Ai i^HiinH that drank w'ttiumt 

til'tfti in 
'i h<; i'A'Mdxu^ (umru, anrl »wor<j hard at ea/di t/iSmr. 
HIkj xaw tii<; r<;^l fa^;*; of tl«j rough w'XMUin 

Quintin, 
And th<; )<winj/inj/ tsand-l/ag ri'.n/ly t/> »n»'/tlior 
'J'Ikj awkwar'l Srjuir*; that w'mn'd th<; niark. 
And, all day long, itt'Xwttau tUa dull wn^'M 
<)f' the, \K/wk, and th<; t/dihi(, and the wnging 

voi';<;», 
The H^;a h'xjin'd hoarw; till the »kiii5» were <lark. 

I5ij». wl»<-,n f.l)C hwhHow, that «weet new-<;om<(;r, 

i'loaUtd ov<',r tl«; w;a in the front of the mxuuiar, 

'ihe Jialt dry >sand« hurn'd whit<;, and );i'rkenVl 

Men'i* ^-ijrht in the glaring horn of the I/ay; 

And all things that ta^ti^n, or tl^/at at ea»e 

In the wlvery light of the iaproiiH man 

With the pul»<; of a UuU'Jam lif<; were qui^;ken*d, 



894 THE eart/s keturn. 

Fi'U looso from the rocks, and crawrd cro-^swise away, 
Slipporv sidcloiiij; crabs, halt" strani»lcd 
l>y the white sea trasses in which they were tangled, 
And those halt-Hvini>; creatures, orb'd, ray'd, and 

sharp-an«iled. 
Fan-fish, and star-lish, and polyjions ]nnij)s, 
Ilueless and boneh^ss, that hinouidly tlticken'd, 
Or Ihit-taced, or sjiiked, or ridged with hnnips, 
INIidting oil' tVoni their clotted clusters and clumps, 
Sprawl'd over the shore in the heat ot" the day. 

An hour before the sun was set 

A darker ripple roU'd oyer the sea ; 

The Avhite rocks (piiverM in wells of jet ; 

And the great West, opening breathlessly 

Up all his inmost orange, gave 

Hints of something distant and sweet 

'I'hat made her lu>art swell ; far up the Avave 

The idouds that lay pileil in the goUlen heat 

AVere turn'd into types of the ancient mountains 

In an ancient land; the weeds, which ibrlorn 

AVaves were swaying neglectt'nlly, 

l>y their sound, as they dipp'd into sparkles that 

drijij)'d 
In the emerald creeks that ran \i\) from the shore, 
lirought back to her fancy the bubble of fountains 
Leaping and falling continually 
In valleys where she should wander no more. 

And when, over all of these, the night 
Among her mazy and milk-white signs, 
And clnsterM orbs, and zig-zag lines, 
l>nrst into blossom of stars and light, 
The sea was glassy ; the glassy brine 
AN'as paven with lights — blue, crystalline, 
Anil emerald keen ; the dark Avorld hung 
Ixilanceil under the moon, and swujig 
In a net of silver sparkles. Then she 
llippled her yellow hair to her kuee, 



THE earl's return. 395 

Bared her warm white bosom and tliroat, 

And from the hittice leau'd athirst. 

'J'liere, on the silence did slie ^^hrdt 

Witli a dizzy pleasure steef)'d in pain, 

Half catching the soul of the seci-et that blended 

God with his starlight, then feciling it vain, 

J-iike a [)ining poet ready to burst 

With the weight of the wonder that grows in his 

brain, 
Or a nightingale, mute at the sound of a lute 
That is swi'llini; and breakinj; his heart with its 

sti-ain, 
Waiting, breathless, to die when the music is ended. 
For the sleek and beautiful midnight stole, 
Like a faithless fri(;nd, her secret care, 
Crept thro' each pore to the source of the soul. 
And mock'd at the anguish which he found there, 
Shining away from her, scornful and fiiir 
In his pitihiss beauty, refusing to share 
The discontent which he could not control. 

The water-rat; as he skulk'd in the moat. 

Set all the slumbrous lilies afloat. 

And sent a sharp rpiick pulse along 

The stagnant light, that heaved and swung 

The leaves together. Suddenly 

At times a shooting star Avould spin 

Shell-like out of heaven, and tumble in. 

And burst o'er a city of stars ; but she, 

As he dash'd on the back of the zodiac. 

And quiver'd and glow'd down arc and node, 

And split sparkling into infinity. 

Thought that some angel, in his reveries 

Thinking of earth, as he pensively 

Lean'd over the star-grated balcony 

In his yralace among the Pleiades, 

And grieved for the sorrow he saw in the land, 

Had dropp'd a white lily from his loose hand. 



396 THE earl's return. 

And thus many a night, steep'd pale in the light 

Of the stars, when the bells and clocks 

Had ceased in the towers, and the sound of the 

hours 
Was eddying about in the rocks, 
Deep-sunken in bristling broidery between the black 

oak Fiends sat she, 
And under the moth-flitted canopy 
Of the mighty antique bed in her chamber, 
With wild eyes drinking up the sea, and her white 

hands heavy with jewelry, 
Flashing as she loosed languidly 
Her satins of snow and of amber. 
And as, fold by fold, these were rippled and roil'd 
To her feet, and lay huddled in ruins of gold, 
She look'd like some pale spirit above 
Earth's dazzling passions forever Hung by, 
Free'd from the "stains of an earthly love, 
And those splendid shackles of pride that press 
On the heart till it aches with the gorgeous stress, 
Quitting the base Past remorsefully. 
And so she put by the coil and care 
Of the day that lay fiirl'd like an idle weft 
Of heaped spots which a bright snake hath left, 
Or that dark house, the blind worm's lair, 
When the star-winged moth from the windows hath 

crept, 
Steep'd her soul in a tearful prayer, 
Shrank into her naked self, and slept. 

And as she slumber'd, starr'd and eyed 
All over with angry gems, at her side, 
The Fiends in the oak kept ward and watch ; 
And the querulous clock, on its rusty catch, 
With a quick tick, husky and thick, 
Clamour'd and clack'd at her sharply. 

There was 
(Fronting a portrait of the Earl) 
A shrine with a dim green lamp, and a cross 



THE earl's return. 397 

Of orlowing cedar wreath'd with pearl, 

Which the Arimath^ean, so it was writ, 

When he came from the holy Orient, 

Had worn, with his prayers embalming it, 

As with the San-Grael thro' the world he went. 

Underneath were relics and gems 

From many an antique king-saint's crown, 

And some ('twas avouch'd) from the dusk diadems 

And mighty rings of those Wise Kings 

That evermore sleep 'mid the marble stems, 

'Twixt chancel and chalice in God his palace, 

The marvel of Cologne Town. 

In a halo dim of the lamp all night 

Smiled the sad Virgin, holy and white, 

With a face as full of the soul's affliction 

As one that had look'd on the Crucifixion. 

At moon-rise the land was suddenly brighter ; 
And thro' all its length and breadth the casement 
Grew large with a luminous strange amazement ; 
And, as doubting in dreams what that sudden blaze 

meant, 
The Lady's white face turn'd a thought whiter. 

Sometimes in sleep light finger-tips 

Touch'd her behind ; the pain, the bliss 

Of a long slow despairing kiss 

Doubled the heat on her feverish lips, 

And down to her heart's-heart smouldering burn'd ; 

From lips long mute she heard her name ; 

Sad dreams and sweet to vex her came ; 

Sighing, upon her pillow she turn'd, 

Like a weary waif on a weary sea 

That is heaving over continually, 

And finds no course, until for its sake 

The heart of the silence begins to ache. 

Unsooth'd from slumber she awoke 

An hour ere dawn. The lamp burn'd faint. 

The Fiends glared at her out of the oak. 



898 TlIK KAKl/s UKTUUX. 

8ho rosi\ and tMl at tho slii-iiic of tlio Saint. 

'riuM'o with claspod hands to tho JNlothor 

Ot" many sorrows, in sorrow, sho prayM ; 

Till all things in tho room moltod into oach othor, 

And vanishM in jryres of llickorinu; shade, 

lAWvino; hor all alono, with tho iaoe 

Of tho Saint orowintj: lariio in its one bright plai'o 

Then on a sr.ddon, from lar, a foar 

Thro' all her heart its horror drew, 

As oi' somothinii' hichn^ns oTowinii' near. 

(\ild lingers soiMnM roamin<v thro' her dam]> hair. 

Her lips weiv look'cL Tho power of pra^oi* 

Left luM-. She clai'od not tnrn. Sho know, 

From his panel atilt on the wall np there, 

The grin\ lOarl was gazing- her thro' and thro'. 

Hut when tho easement, a grisly S(|nare, 
Fliekor'd with day, she thing it wide. 
And look'd below. The shore was bare. 
In the mist tumbled the dismal tide. 
One gliastly pool soem'd solid white ; 
The ibrked shadow of tho thorn 
Fell thro' it, like a raven rent 
In tho steadfast blank ilown whieh it went. 
The blind world slowly gather'il sight. 
The sea was moaning on to morn. 

And the Summer into the Autumn waned. 
And nnder tho watery llyados 
Tho gray sea swoH'd. and the thick sky rainM, 
And the land was darken'd by slow degrees. 

Kut oft, in tho low West, the day 

Smouldering sent up a sullen tlamo 

Along the dreary waste of gray, 

As tho* in that roil region lay, 

lleap'd up, like Autuuui woods and llowers 

For tiro, its thorny fruitless hours, 

And God said, " burn it all away ! " 



TrrK EAin/H itirruKX. 399 

Wlion all was drcariost in flu; skies, 

And the, ^usfy tnicX of twili;flit rnuttor'd, 

A Hti'ati;;(i slow stiiilc frrcAv into Iicr eyes, 

As tho' from a ;^r(;at way off it oame 

And was weary c.rit down to lior lips it flutter'd, 

And turn'd into a si^li, or some soft name 

VVIios(; syllables sounded likest sij^Iis, 

Half sinf)llier'd in sorrow before they were utter'd. 

Sometimes, at ni^dit, a musie was roll'd — 

A ripple of silver liarp-strin^s eold — 

I'Vom the lialls below when; th(! Minstrel sun^r, 

With th(! silver hair, and the f^oidcm ton^^iie, 

And the (!yes of passionh^ss, j)eaeefnl blue 

(Like twili^xlit which faint, stars ;raz(; tJiro',) 

Wis(; willi the yciars which nr) man kn(;w. 

And first the; nmsic;, as tho' tiu; win<is 

Of soinf! blind an;rel w(;re eau^dit in the strings, 

Flutter'd with weak endeavour: anon 

TIk; uneaged h(!art of musie grew bold 

And cautiously looson'd, length by hingth, 

'I'he goI(]en (;on(j of its great und(;r-torui, 

Like a strong man using mild language to one 

That is w'eaker, because he is sure of his strength. 

l>ut once—and it was at the fall of the day, 

WluiTi she, if she (dosecl hei" eyes, did seem 

'i'o b(; wandering fa)-, in a sort of dream, 

With some lost shadow, away, away, 

J)o\vn tli(! heart of a gold('n l^ind whidi slie 

lieinember'd a great way over the s(!a. 

There came a trample of horses and num ; 

And a blowing of horns at tlui Castle-fiate ; 

Th(!n a clattering nois(i ; then a pause ; and then, 

With the sudden jerk of a heavy weight. 

And a wrari'ding and janMing and clirdcing and 

clanking, 
T\ni sound of the falling of cable and chain ; 
And a grumbling over the dewy planking 



400 niK vAuTs kkiikn. 

That shriokM and suuii' with tlu> woiiihi anil strain 
Ami tho tvugh Sotioisohal lv\Nvl\i oiit in tho \u\\\ 
" The Karl and tho Oovil a»v oon\o bav^k agaii\ ! ** 

llov heart stvx^l still tor a nwMMOut or n»oro. 
Thoti siulvlonly tUii-^iM. atul strait\M. ami toro 
At tho nxM!^ wliio^x soomM to liivo >Yay bonoath. 
Slio rnshM to tho window, and hold hor Invatlu 
lliii'h up on tho boaoh woiv tho Ion*; blaok shipjj : 
And tho bivwn ,«5culs hnn^- tWnu tho masts in strips; 
And tho surt* was whirl'd over and over thorn. 
And swopt thorn drippinjv fivm storn to stoni. 
AVithin. in tho givat sv^uaiv oonrt Ivlow, 
AVoro a hnndivd jvngli-lavoil mon, or so. 
Ai\d ono or two yvvlo t'air-hair'd slaves 
AVhloh tho Karl had bixnight ovov tho wituor wavos. 

The IV was a wrincinir ot" horny l\amls ; 

And a swearinj* ot"i>aths; and a givat deal »>t* 

lauiihter ; 
Tho o-rinx Karl ijrowlinj; his hoai'so oo:nmands 
To tho N\'anlon that tollowM him iiivwling at\er ; 
A lowing ol' I'attle along tho wot s^\nds ; 
And a plashing ot' lux^ts on tho slippery rat\er. 
As the long'-tailM blaok-mctnod hoj-ses eaoh 
Went over the bridge t*i\>nv tho gray soa-beaoh. 

Then qnoth tho grim Karl, "tetoh mo a stv>^t> I " 
And they bivught him a givat Innvl that iiripp'd 

ti\)m the brim. 
Whioh he sei/M njx^n with a s^itistiovl wh«.H>p, 
OrainM. and thing at tho head ol" him 
That bivnght it ; then, with a lani^h like a howl. 
Stivk'd his Kwnl ; and stixnlo in thi\>' tho d».v>r with 

a grvnvl. 

Meanwhile the i-wvlo ladv givw white and whiter. 
As the [M>plar pales wKon the keen winds sjnite 
her: 



lilE KAUJ.B ilKTLUN. 401 

And, an tho tree «way» to llie gust, and heaves 

Quick ripples of white alarm up the leaveo, 

80 did she se<;m to shrink and reel 

From the casement — one quiver from head U) hcjA 

on whitest fear. For she heard below, 

On th<i creaking' stairway loud and hlow, 

I^ike drops that plurj;^e audibly down from tlic 

thun<ler 
Into a sea tliat is j^roanin^ under, 
The lieavy foot of th(; Karl as he mounted 
Step after step to the turret : she counted 
Step aft(ir step, as he hasten'd or halted ; 
Now clashinf/ fcljrill thro' the archways vaulted ; 
Now niuilied and thick ; now loud, and more 
J>oud as he came near the Chamber door. 
'J'hen there fell, with a rattle and shock, 
An iron jrlove on the iron lock, 
And the door burst open — the Karl burst thro' it — 
Jiut she saw him not. 'Jhe window-pane. 
Far off, grew larg<; and small again ; 
The sta^g(;ring light did wax arid wane, 
Till there came; a snap of the heavy brain ; 
And a slow-subsiding pulse of pain ; 
And the whol<; world darken'd into rest, 
As the grim Karl pres.s'd to his grausfjme breast 
His white wife. She hung heavy there 
On liis shoulder without br(;ath, 
J)arkly fill'd with sleepy death 
From her heart up to her eyes; 
Dead asleep : and ere he knew it 
(IIow JJeath Ujok her by surprise 
Helpless in her great d(^spair) 
Smoothing baf;k her yellow hair, 
He kiss'd her icy brows ; unwound 
His rough arms, and she fell to the ground. 

" 'J'li.fi v'ornan v) an fairer than, aha vmn vme: 
Bui llm serpfint vms vmer t/ian she v:(iiffair: 
For the serpent vmx lord in Paradise 
2G 



Or f ivr ihd' n^mnv* camf thety. 

Jiut H'htn Ktitn-ttottrs ittiY fnirrd amain. 

Ami (heriern su\^ni on ^nani in the Kasty 

The Hon «i\kvy ;W>m a /«)««/ rf/Hwf, 

Anti (fui^h he, as he shtntk out his rojfai mane^ 

• yoir J am (he {(tntntfest fteast.^ 

Had the woman fnen wiser when she was ^ueen 

J'he lion had nei^r been iinp, I ween, 

£ut eiyr siniY stonns betfan to lower 

l>eautff on earth hath Nen seet>fui to I^ower.'^ 

And this is tho sono- that the Minstivl sung. 

With tho silver hair auvl tho gohlon toniiuo. 

Wlto sung bv nielit in tho grim Karl's hall. 

And thoy hoVi lum in rovoronoo one and all. 

And so sho diod — tho ^v\lo-taood girl. 

Anvl. tor nino <lays afior that, tho Karl 

Fumod and t'lvt, and ravoil and swimv. 

Paoing up and down tho ohanilHM^lKH>r. 

And toaring his blaok boanl as ho wont 

In (ho tit ot* his snllon disoontont. 

And tho Sonosohal scjid it Avas toartiil to hoar him: 

And not ovou iho woaihoj^worii Wanion woiu near 

him ; 
And tho slux'k-hoadod Tagvs hudtllod auoar. 
And bit their Avhite lij\s till thoy bUni, tor toiir. 

Init at last ho lv\do thorn lit> her lightly. 

And bury her by tho gray sea-shore. 

^^holV tho winds that blew I'lvni hor onn land 

nightly 
Might wail ivund hor gnwo thiv" tho wild iwks 

h«.\*ir. 
Sv> they lit\«.Hl hor lightly at dead ot" night. 
And Ihmv her down by the long toivh-light — 
l.ank-hair\i taoes, sallow and keen. 
That burn'd out of the irlassy jhx^Is U^twoon 
rho splashing si\nds whioh. as thoy plungvd thiv\ 
Tho ootUn-lead >Yeiiih*d them down into ; 



THK KAiir/H nt/ix:us. 403 

Aii(] t,l)(;ir i'cc.i, HH \\i(:y f>Iiiok'<J l}if;rn up, \(:il pits 
Which the wat<;r oo/.'d irifr> and out of by fitn — 
— And HO U) th(; fJc,<f[j-rnouU)'d Lay's l>lack hrirn, 
Wh(;re th(i pale f;ri<;HtH, all wliite-Ktoied and dim, 
Lifted the oroHH and f'hanted the liyrnn, 
'i'liat ]i(tr .soul rni^djt Jiavi; pe;i/;e when her hones 

were duHt, 
And lier name; he written arnon;.^ the JuHt. 
'J"h(j Warden walke,d after the Senenehal t^nxn ; 
And the Hhoek-headed I'a^res walk'd after }jini : 
And with rnattrjf;k and HpafJe a ^'rav<; waH nrjade, 
Wiiere they carved tlie croHs, and they wrote her 

name, 
And, returning/ each by the way that he eaine, 
'J li(;y left her under the bare black thorn. 

'J'iif; Halt sea-wind sanj^ shrill in ihf; head of it ; 
Anr] tF)e bittxjr nijrlit '^rt;w chill with tlie dread of it ; 
When the jrreat round moon rose up forlorn 
From tli(i reefs, and whit(;n'd towards th(i morn. 
For the forked tree, as tlie bleak bla^.t took it, 
ilowl'd thro' it, and beat it, and bit it, and shr>ok it, 
Lik(j a livin;^ thin;/ bewitch'd and bc^devil'd, 
Visibly shrunk, and shudder'd and shrivel'd. 

And a;/airi tha swallow, that false new-<;omer, 
Flutter'cJ ov<;r the sea in tlie frorit of the summer; 
A careless sin^rer, as he should br; 
'I'hat only skitnmeth the mi;/|ity sea; 
J>if>f/d his wind's as he came an'i went. 
And chirrup'd and twitter'd for heart's content, 
And built on tlie new-made f^rave. iiut when 
'Jhe Summer was over he flew back again. 

And the Karl, as years went by, and his life 

Grew listless, t/>ok him another wife : 

And the Seneschal j;rim, and the Warden gray 

Walk'd about in their wonted way: 

And the lean-jaw'd shock-hair'd Fages too 



404 THE earl's uetukn. 

Sung and swillM as they used to do. 
And the grooms, and the squires gamed and swore 
And quarrel'd again as they ([uarrerd before ; 
And the llowers decay'd in their dismal beds, 
And dropp'd ott' from tlieir lean shanks one by one, 
Till nothing was left but the stalks and the heads, 
Clump'd into heaps, or ripp'd into shreds, 
To steam into salt in the sickly sun. 

And the cattle low'd late up the glimmering plain, 
Or dipp'd knee-deep, and splash'd themselves 
In the pools spat out by the spiteful main, 
Wallowing in sandy dykes and delves : 
And the blear-eyed tilmy sea did boom 
With his old mysterious hungering sound : 
And the wet wind wail'd in the chinks of the tomb. 
Till the weeds in the surf were drench'd and 

droAvn'd. 
But once a stranger came over the wave, 
And paused by the pale-faced Lady's grave. 

It was when, just about to set, 

A sadness held the sinking sun. 

The moon delayed to shine as yet : 

The Ave-lNIary chime was done : 

And from the bell-tower lean'd the ringers ; 

And in the chancel paused the singers, 

AVith lingering looks, and clasped lingers: 

And the day reluctantly turn'd to his rest, 

Like some untold life, that leaves exprest 

But the half of its hungering love ere it close : 

So he went sadly toward his repose 

Deep in the heart of the slumbrous waves 

Kindled far oft' in the desolate West. 

And the breeze sprang up in the cool sea-caves. 

The castle stood -with its courts in shade, 

And all its toothed towers imprest 

On the sorrowful light that sunset made — 

Such a light as sleeps shut up in the breast 



THE earl's return. 405 

Of some pining crimson-hearted rose, 
"Which, as you gaze at it, grows and grows 
And all the warm leaves overflows ; 
Leaving its sweet source still to be guest. 

The crumpled shadow of the thorn 

Crawl'd over the sand-heaps raggedly, 

And over the gray stone cross forlorn. 

And on to that one man musing there 

Moveless, while o'er him the night crept on. 

And the hot yellow stars, slowly, one after one, 

Mounted into the dark blue air 

And brightened, and brightened. Then suddenly, 

And sadly and silently, 

Down the dim breezy rim of the sea sank the sun. 

Ere the moon was abroad, the owl 
Made himself heard in the echoing tower 
Three times, four times. The bat with his cowl 
Came and went round the lonely Bower 
Where dwelt of yore the Earl's lost Lady. 
There night after night, for years, in vain 
The lingering moon had look'd through the pane, 
And miss'd the face she used to find there. 
White and wan like some mountain flower 
In its rocky nook, as it paled and pined there 
Only known to the moon and the wind there. 
Lights flitted faint in the halls down lower 
From lattice to lattice, and then glow'd steady. 

The dipping gull : and the long gray pool : 

And the reed that shows which way the breeze 

blows cool. 
From the wide warm sea to the low black land : 
And the wave makes no sound on the soft yellow 

sand : 
But the inland shallows sharp and small 
Are swarm'd about with the sultry midge : 



-106 TllF. KAKI.'S UKTUKX. 

Ami tlio woods in tlio riftod rot'ks at will 

iMovo iM\ tho tiilo, ami tloiit or ulido. 

And into tho silont wostorn sido 

Ot' tho hoavou tho moon boiiins to tall. 

Hut is it tho tall of a plovor's oall 

That is ausworM Avarily, low yot shrill, 

From tho saml-hoapt mound and tho rooky ridoo? 

Ami now oVr tho ilark plain so wild and wido 

Falls tho noto of n i\orn from tho old draw-bridgo. 

Who is it that waits at tho oastlo-gatos ? 

C\ill in tho minstrol, and till the bowl. 

IVul him looso tho uroat nmsio and lot tho son^^- roll. 

Fill tho bowl. 

An^l tirst, as was duo, to tho Ivirl ho bowM : 

Next to all tho Sea-i'hioftains. blitho tVionds o\.' tho 

Karl's : 
Thou advanood thro' tho praiso o\' tho murmuring 

orowd. 
And sat down, as thov bado him, and all his blaok 

ourls 
Uow'il ovor his harp, as in iloubt whioh to ohoose 
From tho molodios ooil'd at his hoart. For a man 
OVr somo Boauty asloop for one momont might 

muso. 
Halt' in lovo, oro ho woko hor. Si> oro ho bogan, 
llo paused ovor his song. Ami thoy brought him, 

tho Sipiiros, 
A heavy gold oup with tho rod wine ripe in it, 
Then wave ovor wave of tho sweet silver wires 
'(lan ripjilo, ai\d the minstrol took heart to begin it. 

A harjuM" that har[>s thorough mountain and glen. 

Wandering, wandering tho wide world ovor, 

Sweetest of singers, yet sadilost ot' men, 

His soul's lost Lady in vain to disoin-or. 

;Most fair, and n\ost frail of the daughters ot" men, 

O blest, and O eurst, tho man that should love her ! 

Who has not loveil V and -who has not lost? 



TIIK EAIir/s IlKTURN. 407 

Wherever he wander, tlie wide world over, 

Smo'iufr by city, and castle, and plain, 

Abidinj^ never, forever a rover. 

Each man that shall hear him will swear almost 

In th(; minstrePs son;^ that his heart can discover 

The selfsame laxly by whom it was crost, 

For love is love the wide world over. 

What shall ]ut liken his love unto V 

Have you se<m some cloud the sun sets thro', 

When the lin^^erinj^ nij^ht is close at hand V 

Have you seen some rose lie on the snow V 

Or a summ(;r bird in a winter land V 

Or a lily dyirif; for dearth of dew ? 

Or a peail sea-east on a barren strand ? 

Some f^ardeii never sunshine warms 

Nor any tend V some lonely tree 

That stretcluis bleak its barren arms 

Turn'd inland from the bli;/htinf^ sea V 

Her cheek was pale : her face was fair : 

Her heart, he sunff, was weak and warm : 

All j^olden was the sleepy hair 

That floated round about her form. 

And hid the sweetness breathinj^ there. 

Her eyes w(;re wild, like stars that shine 

Far off in summer ni^fhts divine: 

liut her smile — it was like the jzolden wine 

Four'd into the spirit, as into a cup, 

With passion brimmin^r it up, and up, 

And marvellous fancies fair and fine. 

He took her hair to make sweet strings : 

He hid her smile deep in his sonff, 

"^riiis makes so rich the tune he sin;rs 

'J'hat o'er the world 'twill linjfcr long. 

There is a land far, far away from yours. 
And there the stars are thrice as bright as these. 
And there the nightingale strange music pours 
All day out of the hearts of myrtle trees. 



•108 vuv rvui's ui itkn. 

Tlioiv tho voii'o t>t'tlu> ciu-koo soiiiuly i\ovor fotloni 
As you boar it I'ar oil' thro' tho ilt>op purpK^ valh'vs. 
Ami tlio tirolly danoos by niiilit in tho oorn. 
Ami tho UttU» rouml owls in tho h>nu: oy pro5»sftllovs 
^^'hoop tor joy >vhon tho moon is bv>rn. 
Thoro rinon tho oHvo and tho tulip troo, 
Antl in tho sun broailons tho m'oon priokly poar. 
And tho briiibt uah'^iialos in tho grass you n\av soo. 
And tho vino, with hor n\val bluo globos, dwolloth 

thoro. 
Clinvbino- and hanging dolioiously 
Uy OYory doorway and lono laitiood obambor, 
Whoro tho dan\soltly tlits. and tho boavy brown boo 
Hums alono. and tho ijuiok. lizards rustlo and olam- 

bor. 
And all things, tlioro. livo and rojoioo togotbor, 
l'ron\ tho trail poaoh-blosstnn that tirst appoars 
^Vhon birds aro about in tho bluo siunmor woatber. 
To tho iwk that has livod thwugh bis oight bundrod 

yea J"}!. 
And tho oastlos aro built on tho bills, not tho plains, 
(And tho wiKl windflowors burn about in the 

oourts thoro") 
Thoy aro Avbito and undromhd by tho gray wintor 

rains. 
And tho swallows, and all things, aro blitbo at tboir 

sports thoro. 
O tor ono nunuont. at sunsot. to stand 
Far, tar a>Yay, in that lioar ilistant laud 
>N'honoo thoy Umv boi" — tho lovoliost lady that ovor 
Crost tho bloak oooan. 0\\ novormoro, nover. 
Shall sho stand with hor toot in tho warm dry 

grassos 
Whero tho taint bahu-hoaping broozo boavily 

pa ssos. 
And tho -whito lotus-tlowor loans loi\o on tho river ! 

Kaiv •Nvoro tho goms 'vvhioh sho had tor hor dower. 
But all the wild llowers she ioti behind her. 



'I III. kmu.'h i{KTj;i:N. 400 

— \ brokf;n li«;arf and a ro,s(;-roof''<l bower. 

O oft, and in many a d<;Holat<i hour, 

'\'\\<'. cold Hfranj^e 1';w;(^h hIjc Hct'H whall remind her 

Of fjcartH that were warmer, and Hmiles that were 

kinder, 
JvOHt, like tlie. roH(;H they pluek'd from lier hower ! 
I>oriely and far from her own land tfiey laid her ! 
— A Kwallow flew ov(;r the Hea to find \u-.r. 
Ah cold, cold and narrow, the b(;d that they made 

her: 
'i'he Kwallow vv(;nf, forth witli thf; Kumrner to find 

her. 
The HurniiKjr and the hwallow came back o'er the 

Hea, 
And strange were the tidin;.rs the bird brought to 

me. 

And tlie rnin.strel nung, and they prai.s'd and 

listen'd— 
<r,ix<:(\ and jjrais'd while the minstrel sung. 
KluHfit was each cheek, and each fixteye gli.st(;ned, 
And liuHht was each voice to the minHtrerH tongue. 
Jiut tlie Karl grew paler more and more 
Ah the 8ong of the Singer grew louder and clearer, 
Anrl HO dumb was the hall, you might hear the roar 
Of the Hea in itn paunes grow nearer and drearer. 
And . . . buHh ! hush ! hush ! 
O was it the wind V or was it the ruhh 
Of the restlcHH waters that tumble and splaMh 
On the wild fiea-rocks V or wan it th(; cranh 
rjf stoncH on th(i old wet bridge up there 'f 
Or the Hound of the tempest come over the main ? 
— Nay, but just now tin; night was fair. 
WaH it th<; march of the midnight rain 
Clattering down in the courts V or the crash 
Of armour yonder '/ . . . Listen again ! 

Can it be lightning V — can it be thunder? 
For a lif^ht is all round the lurid hall 



410 THE earl's RETUllN. 

That reddens and reddens the windows all, 

And far away you may hear the fall 

As of rafter and boulder splittuig asunder. 

It is not the thunder, and it is not the lightninrr 

To which the castle is sounding and brightening, 

But something worse than lightning or thunder ; 

For what is this that is coming yonder ? 

Which way ? Here ! Where ? 

Call the men ! . , . Is it there ? 

Call them out ! Ring the bell ! 

Ring the Fiend backto Hell ! 

Ring, ring the alarum for mercy ! . . . Too late ! 

It has crawl'd up the walls — it has burst in the 

gate- 
It looks thro' the windows — it creeps near the 

hall- 
Near, more near — red and clear — 
It is here ! 
Now the saints save us all ! 

And little, in truth boots it ringing the bell. 
For the fire is loose on its way one may tell 
By the hot simmering whispers and humming up 

there 
In the oak-beams and rafters. Now one of the 

Squires 
His elbow hath thrust thro' the half-smoulder'd 

door — 
Such a hole as some rat for his brown wife might 

bore — 
And straightway in snaky, white, wavering spires 
The thin smoke twirls thro', and spreads eddying 

in gyres 
Here and there toucht with vanishing tints from 

the glare 
That has swathed in its rose-light the sharp turret 

stair. 
Soon the door ruin'd thro' : and in tumbled a cloud 



THE EARLS RETURN. 411 

Of black vapour. And first 'twas all blackness, 

and then 
The quick forked fires leapt out from their shroud 
In the blackness : and thro' it rush'd in the arm'd 

men 
From the courtyard. And then there was flying 

and fighting, 
And praying and cursing — confusion confounded. 
Each man, at wild hazard, thro' smoke ramparts 

smiting, 
Has struck ... is it friend ? is it foe ? Who is 

wounded ? 

But the Earl — who last saw him ? Who cares V who 

knows ? 
Some one, no doubt, by the weight of his blows. 
And they all, at times, heard his oath — so they 

swore : — 
Such a cry as some spear'd wild beast might give 

vent to. 
When the lean dogs are on him, and forth with 

that roar 
Of desolate wrath, the life is sent too. 
If he die, he will die with the dying about him. 
And his red wet sword in his hand, never doubt 

him : 
If he live, perchance he will bear his new bride 
Thro' them all, past the bridge, to the wild sea- 
side. 
And there, whether he leave, or keep his wife still. 
There's the free sea round him, new lands, and new 

fife still. 
And ... but ah, the red light there ! And high up 

and higher 
The soft, warm, vivid sparkles crowd kindling, and 

wander 
Far away down the breathless blue cone of the 

night. 
Saints ! can it be that the ships are on fire. 



412 riiK KAKi.'s KKrriJN-. 

Tlioso luM\'o hot I'lots ofi'i'inisiMi li^•llt, 
l>ri«2;htiM\in!i-, whiliMiinij; in tlio tli^taiu'O yoiulor ? 
Slowly o\er tlio slumbrous dark 
Tp tVmu those tbuntains ot'liro spark on sj>ark 
(Vou miiiht count tlunn almost) tloats silout : ami 

(.'loar 
In the stoadt'ast glow the great eross beams. 
And the sharp and delieate masts show black ; 
AV'hile Nvlder and hiiiher the red liiiht streams. 
And oo/es, and overtlows at the back. 
Then taint thro' the ilistanee a sound you hear, 
And the bare poles tottor and ilisappear. 

Ot' the Karl, in truth, the Seneschal swore 
(And over the ocean this tale he bore) 
That when, as he tied oti that last wild night, 
lie had gain'd the other side of the moat, 
Dripping, he shook oiX his wet leathern coat, 
Anel turning round beheld, from basement 
To cope, the castle swathed in light. 
And, revcalM in the glai-e thro' My T/idy's case- 
ment, 
lie saw, or dream'd he saw, this sight — 

Two tbrn\s (and one for the Karl's he knew, 
By the long shaggy beard ami the bnxul back too) 
Struggling, grapjiling, like things half human. 
The other, he saitl, he but vaguely distingnish'd. 
When a sound like the shriek of an agonizeil 

"woman 
ISlade him shudiler, ami lo, all the vision was gone! 
Ceiling ami tloor had fillen thro'. 
In a glut of vomited llame extinguish 'd ; 
And the still tire rose and broadeu'd on. 

How fcart'ul a thing is lire ! 
You might n\ake up your mind to die by water 
A slow cool death — nay, at tinies, when Aveary 
Of pains that pass not, and pleasures that pall, 



TiriO EAI{L'H ItKTJJKX. 413 

Wfien tlic temples tlirob, arul llie lieart is dreary, 
And life is dried up, you eould even desire 
Tliro' the flat (rraan weeds to fall and fall 
Ilalf-asleep down the ^'reen li;^ht under them all, 
As in a dream, whihj all thin;rs seem 
WawTirin^', waverin;^, to fe(;l the strc^am 
Wind, and f^ur^^le, and sound and gleam. 
And who would very much fear to expire 
Jiy steel, in th(; front of victorious slaughter, 
The blithe; battle about liim, and comrades in call? 

liut to die by fire 

() that night in the hall I 

And th(; f;astl(; burn'd from base; to top. 

You had thought that the fire would never stop, 

For it roar'd like the great north wind in the pines, 

And shon(; as the boreal met(!or shines 

Watch'd by wihl hunters in shuddering bands, 

When wolves are about in the icy lands. 

From the sea you might mark.lbr a space of three 

days. 
Or fainter, or fiercer, the didl red l>laze. 
And wlien this <;eased, the smoke above it 
Hung so heavy not even the wind seem'd to move 

it; 

So it glared and groan'd, and night after night 
Smoulder'd — a terrible beacon-light. 

Now tlje Earl's old minstrel — he that had sung 
His youth out in those halls — the man beloved, 
With the silver hair and the golden tongue, 
'J'hey bore him out from the fire ; but he roved 
liack to the stified courts; and there 
They watch'd him hov(;ring, day after day. 
To and fro', with his long wiiite hair 
And his gold harp, chanting a lonely lay ; 
Chanting and changing it o'er and o'er. 
Like th(; mournful mad melodious breath 
Of some wild swan singing himself to death, 



414 THE earl's return. 

As lie floats down a strange land leagues away. 
One day the song ceased. They heard it no more. 

Did you ever an Alpine eagle see 

Come down from Hying near the sun 

To find his eyrie all undone 

On lonely clills where chance hath led 

Some spying thief the brood to plunder '? 

How hangs he desolate overhead, 

And circling now aloft, now under, 

His ruin'd home screams round and round, 

Then dro|)s Hat Ihittcring to the ground. 

So moaning round the roofs they saw him, 

AVith his gleaming harp and his vesture white : 

Going, and coming, and ever returning 

To those chambers, emptied of beauty and state 

And chok'd with blackness and ruin and burning, 

Then, as some instinct seem'd to draw him. 

Like hidden hands, down to his fate, 

lie paused, plunged, dropp'd forever from sight ; 

And a cone of smoke and sparkles roll'd up. 

As out of some troubled crater-cup. 

As for the rest, some died ; some fled 

Over the sea, nor ever return'd. 

But until to the living return the dead 

And they each shall stand and take their station 

Again at the last great conllagration, 

Never more Avill be seen the r2arl or the stranger. 

No doubt there is nnich here that's fit to be burn'd. 

Christ save us all in that day from the danger ! 

And this is why these fishermen say, 

Sitting alone in their boats on the bay, 

AVhen the moon is low in the wild windy nights, 

They hear strange sounds, and see strange sights. 

Spectres gathering all forlorn 

Under the bouiihs of this bare black thorn. 



A soul's loss. 415 



A SOUL'S LOSS. 

" If Beauty liave a soul this is not she." — 

Tkoilus and Ckkssida. 

'TwixT the Future and the Past 

There's a moment. It is o'er. 
Kiss sad hands ! we part at last. 

I am on the other shore. 
Fly stern Hour ! and hasten fust 

Nobler things are gone before. 

From the dark of dying years 

Grows a face with violet eyes, 
Tremulous thro' tender tears — 

Warm lips heavy with rich sighs — 
Ah, they fade ! it disappears. 

And with it my whole heart dies ! 

Dies .... and this chok'd world is sickening. 

Truth has nowhere room for breath. 
Crusts of falsehood, slowly thickening 

From the rottenness beneath 
These rank social forms, are {|uickening 

To a loathsome life-in-death. 

those devirs-markctj)1aces! 
Knowing, nightly, she was there, 

Can I marvel that the traces 
On her spirit are not fair? 

1 Ibrgot that air debases 

When I knew she breath'd such air. 

This a fair inmiortal spirit 

For which God prepared his spheres ? 



416 A soul's loss. 

What ! sliall this the stars inherit ? 

And the worth of honest tears ? 
A fool's fancy all its merit ! 

A fool's judgment all its fears ! 

No, she loves no other ! No, 
That is lost which she gave me. 

Is this comfort — that I know 
All her spirit's poverty ? 

When that dry soul is drain'd low, 
His who wills the dregs may be ! 

Peace ! I trust a heart forlorn 
Weakly upon boisterous speech. 

Pity were more fit than scorn. 

Finger'd moth, and bloomless peach ! 

Gather'd rose without a thorn, 
Set to fleer in all men's reach ! 

I am cloth'd Avith her disgrace. 

O her shame is made my own ! 
O I reel from my high place ! 

All belief is overthrown. 
What ! This whirligig of lace, 

This the Queen that I have known ? 

Starry Queen that did confer 
Beauty on the barren earth ! 

Woodlands, wander'd oft with her 
In her sadness and her mirth, 

Feeling her ripe influence stir 
Brought the violets to birth. 

The great golden clouds of even. 
They, too, kneAV her, and the host 

Of the eternal stars in heaven ; 
And I deem'd 1 knew her most. 

I, to whom the AVord was given 
How archano-els have been lost ! 



A soul's loss. 417 

Given in vain ! . . . But all is over ! 

Every spell that bound me broken ! 
In her eyes I can discover 

Of that perisht soul no token. 
I can neither hate nor love her. 

All my loss must be unspoken. 

Mourn I may, that from her features 

All the angel light is gone. 
But I chide not. Human creatures 

Are not angels. She was none. 
Women have so many natures ! 

I think she loved me well with one. 

All is not with love departed. 

Life remains, tho' toucht with scorn. 
Lonely, but not broken-hearted. 

Nature changes not. The morn 
Breathes not sadder. Buds have started 

T« white clusters on the thorn. 

And to-morrow I shall see 

How the leaves their green silk sheath 
Have burst upon the chestnut-tree. 

And the white rose-bush beneath 
My lattice which, once tending, she 

Made thrice sweeter with her breath, 

Its black buds thro' moss and glue 
Will swell greener. And at eve 

Winking bats will waver thro' 

The gray warmth from eave to eave, 

While the daisy gathers dew. 

These things grieve not, tho' I grieve. 

What of that ? Deep Nature's gladness 

Does not help this grief to less. 
And the stars will show no sadness, 

And the flowers no heaviness, 

27 



418 A soni/s 1.0S8. 

Tlio' oaoli thoiip;ht sliouUl turn to madness 
Noatli the strain oi' its distress ! 

No, if lite seem lone to me, 

'Tis searee lonelier than at lirst. 

Lonely natures there must bo. 
Eai2;les are so. I was nurst 

Far from love in intaney : 

I have sought to slake my thirst 

At high founts; to tly alone, 

Haunt the heaven, and soar, and sing. 
Earth's warm joys 1 have not known. 

This one heart held everything. 
Now my eirie i?; o'erthrown ! 

As of old, 1 spread the wing, 

And vise u]> to meet my fate 

AVith a yet unbroken will. 
AVhen Heaven shut up Kden-gate 

INlan was given the earth to till. 
There's a world to oultivate, 

And a solitude to till. 

AVeleome man's old helpmate, Toil ! 

How may this heart's hurt be heal'd '? 
Crush the olive into oil ; 

Turn the jiloughshare ; sow the Held. 
All are tillers of the soil. 

Eaeh some harvest hopes to yield. 

Shall I perish with the whole 
Of the eoming years in view 

Unattempted ? To the soul 

Every hour brings something new. 

Still suns rise : still ages roll. 
Still some deed is left to do. 

Some . . . but what V Small matter now 
For one lilv for her hair. 



A SOIJLB LOSS. 419 

For one rose to wreathe her brow, 

For one j^em to spaikle there, 
I Jiad . . . words, old words, I know ! 

AV^lial. was f, that slie should care 

]Jow I difler'd from the common 

Crowd that thrills Mfjt to her touch V 
liow I (leemM her more than human, 
And had died to crown her such V 
[ire wo 
much ! 

Fool, she haunts me still ! No wonder ! 

Not a hud on yon black bed, 
Not a swathiid lily yonder, 

But recalls some f'ra^^rance fled ! 
II<!re, what marvel J should ponder 

On the last word which she said V 

I must seek some other place 

Where free Nature knows her not: 

Where J shall not meet her face 
In each old familiar spot. 

There is comfort left in space. 
Even this grief may be forgot. 

Great men reach dead hands unto me 

From the graves to comfort me. 
Shakespeai'c's heart is throbbing thro' me. 

All man has been man may be. 
Plato speaks like one that knew me. 

Life is made Philosophy. 

Ah, no, no ! while yet the leaf 

Turns, the truth upon its pall. 
By the stature of this grief. 

Even Shakespeare shows so small ! 
Plato palters with relief. 

Grief is greater than them all ! 



120 riiK AIM' I SI". 

Tlicy AViM'o |MMliuUs wlio (M)!!^! spoak. 

(iraiulcr souls h.ivo past imluiiinl: 
Such as I'omul all laii!;iiai;(> wfak ; 

Chooslnii- rallior it) rot'onl 
Socivts l)»>lor(> llo.'ivtM\ : iioi- broak 

l"'ai(h willi aum'ls by a word. 

Ami lloavcM IhmmIs this wro(rluMlu(>ss 
Which I siillor. Lot it, lu>. 

Would thai I could lovo (1uh> less ! 
1, too, aiu «lra<i<;'d down liy llico. 

'lMuu«< iu \v(»akuoss thino — ah yos ! 
Vet I'aivwoll otcrnally. 

Child, I have no lips to ohido thoo. 

Taki' tlu> hhvssiuii; ol' a heart, 
(NiMcr more to h<>at hi'side theo!) 

Which in blessiuii breaks. l)e[>art. 
Farewell ! I that dellied theo 

Dare not question what thou art. 



TllK ARIMST. 

() Aurisr, rai\m' not over wide : 
Lest what thou seek W haply hid 

Li braiuble-blossoius at thy side, 
Or shut within the daisy -lid. 

(lod's lilory lies n*)! out ol' reach. 

The moss we crush beneath «)nr I'eet, 
Tho pebbles on the wet sea-beach. 

Have soUunn nu\iuiu«i's stranu;*' and sweet. 

Tho peasant at his eottaiio dom' 

Mi\\ tcjioh theo more than Plato knew : 

Sei» that thou scorn him not : adoro 
(Jod in him, and Ihv nature too. 



IKK AHltHT. 421 

Know wf.ll tliy fVicri'lH. TIkj woofll^ino'H }»rf;;tt,fi, 

Tlif, woolly tr-ndrjl on tli«; vln'-., 
Arr-, tnorc; to tlicc. Mian (JaloV <Jc,;tth, 

Or (Jicc.ro'H wonl« fo Catllin(5. 

'I'lic, wild v(>H<: ]h fliy next In }>](>()<\ : 
Sliarc. Nal.rirc wifli lic.r, and l.liy li'-.arL 

TIm', kin;/rnr>H an; t.liy HiHUtrlKK^d : 
(JonHuIt, (iK'.rn duly on Un'nc, art. 

Nor r;roHH flic Hca for i/cuih. Nor Kfjc.k : 
I'c, Kfin^'lit. I''<'.ar not to flw<-,ll aion(!. 

I'oMHftHS ihyncM'. \'t<; proudly-rncok. 
S(;<', tlioij \>(: wortliy to h<; known. 

'I'll*', ^icniiJH on tliy daily wayn 

Shall fn«'r',t, and tal<<; tlico \>y tli«; liand : 

I'.iit H«',rv<'. Iiini not an who (An-.yn: 
lie, i<« thy HJavo if thou cornrrianrl : 

Anfl hloHHonm on tfir; lilackhc.rry-HtalkH 
Il<'. Hliall itnchant as thou doHt riasM, 

Till tlM-y drf<f) ^'ohJ upon tfiy walkw, 
And diairif^ndH in the d«;wy f.^raHS. 

Sufh lar;^r;HH of th<-. Iih*;ral l)OW<'.rH 
l''r'orri h-.f't to ri;.dit in ^.a-andly Hun;.', 

VVIi;i,t tirn<-, their Huhj<!ct hlofMriH and floworu 
l{\t\y-\'()cAH walk in Hfate aniorif^. 

I'.c, r|uif,t. Takf, thin^'H as thf.y er^rne : 
I'iaf:li hour will draw out .".oirie Hur[)riH<;. 

With hlcHMin;^ let the dayH un home,: 
Thou Hhalt have thanl<« from evr-.nin;.^ nkiei!. 

L".an not on one mind eoriHtantly : 

L<-.Ht, where one. Htood hef'orcr, twf> fall. 

Something/ ^^ofl hath tr> Hay \<) thee 
Worth h(;ariug from the lip« of all. 



422 THE ARTIST. 

All tliinos arc thine estate : yet must 
Thou first display the title-deeds, 

And sue the world. Be strong : and trust 
High instincts more than all the creeds. 

The world of Thought is pack'd so tight, 
If thou stand up another tumbles : 

Heed it riOt, tho' tliou have to fight 
AVith giants : whoso follows stumbles. 

Assert thyself : and by-and-by 

The world will come and lean on thee. 

But seek not praise of men : thereby 
Shall false shows cheat thee. Boldly be. 

Each man was worthy at the first : 
God spake to us ere we were born : 

But we forget. The land is curst : 
We plant the brier, reap the thorn. 

Remember, every man He made 
Is diiferent : has some deed to do, 

Some work to work. Be undismay'd, 
Tho' thine be humble : do it too. 

Not all the wisdom of the schools 

Is wise for thee. Hast thou to speak ? 

No man hath spoken for thee. Rules 
Are well : but never fear to break 

The scaffolding of other souls : 

It was not meant for thee to mount ; 

Tho' it may serve thee. Separate wholes 
Make up the sum of God's account. 

Earth's number-scale is near us set ; 

The total God alone can see ; 
But each some fraction : shall I fret 

If you see Four where I saw Three ? 



THE ARTIST. 423 

A unit's loss the sum would mar ; 

Therefore if I have One or Two, 
I am as rich as others arc, 

And help the whole as well as you. 

This wild white rose-bud in my hand 
Ilath meaninpjs meant for me alone. 

Which no one else can understand ; 
To you it breathes with alter'd tone : 

How shall I class its properties 

For you ? or its wise Avhisperings • 

Interpret ? Other cars and eyes 
It teaches many other things. 

We number daisies, fringe and star : 
We count the cinqfoils and the poppies: 

Wc know not what they mean. We are 
Degenerate copyists of copies. 

We go to Nature, not as lords. 

But servants : and she treats us thus : 

Speaks to us with indifferent words. 
And from a distance looks at us. 

Let us go boldly, as we ought, 

And say to her " We are a part 
Of that supreme original Thought 

Which did conceive thee what thou art : 

" We will not have this lofty look : 
Thou shalt fall down, and recognize 

Thy kings : we will write in thy book, 
Command thee with our eyes." 

She hath usurpt us. She should be 

Our model: but we have become 
Her miniature-painters. So when we 

Entreat her softly she is dumb. 



424 THE ARTIST. 

Nor sorvG tlio subjoct ovennucli : 

Nor rliydiin aiul rliymo, nor colour and form 
Know 'I'rntli liatli all ii^reat <>;rac('.s, such 

As shall with these thy Avork inform. 

Wo. ransack History's talterM \m^e : 
We prate oCciioch and costume : 

C-all this, and that, the Classic Age : 

Choose tunic now, now helm and plume : 

But while Avo halt in weak debate 

'Twixt that and this apiiropriale theme, 

The ollended wild-(lowers stare and wait, 
The bird hoots at us IVom the stream. 

Next, as to laws. What's beautiful 

We rcKuignize in form and face : 
And judge it thus, and thus, by rule, 

As perfect law brings perfect grace : 

If thro' the effect we drag the cause, 

])issect, divide, anatomize, 
Results are lost in loathsome laws, 

And all the ancient beauty ilies: 

Till wc, instead of bloom and light. 
See only sinews, nerves, and veins : 

Nor will the elfect and cause unite, 
For one is lost if one remains: 

But from some higher ])oint behold 
This dense, ])erplexing, com))lication ; 

And laws involved in laws unfold, 
And orb into thy contemplation. 

(rod, wlien he made the seed, conceived 
The (lower ; and all the work of sun 

And rain, belbre the stem was leaved, 
In that prenatal thought Avas done : 



THE ARTIST. 425 

The f^Irl who twines in her soft hair 

The oranfre-flovver, with love's devotion, 

By the mere ar;t of beinof fair 

Sets countless laws of life in motion : 

So thou, by one thoufrht thoroujihiy great, 

Shalt, without heed thereto, fulfil 
All laws of art. Create ! create ! 

Dissection leaves the dead dead still. 

All Sciences arc branches, each, 

Of that first science — Wisdom. Seize 

The true point whence, if thou shouldst reach 
Thine arm out, thou may'st grasp all these, 

And close all knowledge in thy y)alm. 

As History proves Philosophy : 
Philosophy, with warnings calm, 

Prophet-like, guiding History. 

Burn catalogues. Write thine own hooks. 

What need to pore o'er Greece and Rome ? 
When whoso thro' his own life looks 

Shall find that he is fully come 

Thro' Greece and Rome, and Middle- Age : 
Hath been by turns, ere yet full-grown. 

Soldier, and Senator, and Sage, 
And worn the tunic and the gown. 

Cut the world thoroughly to the heart. 

The sweet and bitter kernel crack. 
Have no half-dealings with thine art. 
All heaven is waiting : turn not back. 

If all the world for thee and me 

One solitary shape possess'd. 
What shall I say V a single tree — 

Whereby to type and hint the rest. 



426 TiiK AiMisr. 

And 1 oould imitate tlu> l>ark 

Ami foliaiio. both in form and hno, 

Or silvorv-<iray, or brown and dark. 
Or rongli \\\[\\ n\oss, or whM with iUmv, 

l^nt (hou, Avith ono form in thine ovo, 
Conldst ponotrato all iiu-ms : possess 

The sonl of form : and nuiUiply 
A niilHon like it, more or less, 

Which were the Artist of us twain ? 

The moral's elear to understand. 
Where'er we walk, by hill or plain. 

Is there no niystery on the land? 

The osier'd, oitsy water, milled 

l>y tlutterinii" switts that dip and wink : 

Deeji eattle in the eowslips ninllUnl. 
Or lazy-eyed upon the brink : 

Or, wlien — a stMiill of stars — liie night 
(l>y (lod withdrawn), is rollM away, 

The silent sun, on some eold height, 
Breaking the great seal of the day: 

Are these not words more rieh than ours ? 

O seize their in\port if you ean ! 
C)ur souls are pareli'd like withering tlowers. 

C)ur knowledge ends where it began. 

While yet about us fall (lod's dews. 
And whisper seerets o'er the earth 

Worth all the weary years we lose 
In learning legends of our birth, 

Arise, O Artist ! and restore 

Their musie to the moaning winds. 

Love's broken pearls to life's bare shore, 
And freshness to our tainting minds. 



'i/ii, wii i;'h \\iA(,iA)Y. 427 



THK VVIFK'S T\IA(',VA)Y. 

I. 

'I III; KVKXfX'; r,i;ioi;j; rni; \\a<:\vw 

Takk tlif, fliamonfls from my hnir! 

Takf, i.\\('. Ilo.wor.s from t.lic urn ! '* 

Filri^' tlic lattice wifle ! moro air ! 

Air — more air, or else I burn I 

Put the bracelets l>y. And tlirust 
Out of Hi;.4it these liatf.d ftearls. 

I coulrj trample tliem to dust, 
Tho' they 'werr: Iiis gift, the lOarl's ! 

Fluslit T am ? The danoo it was. 

Only that. Now leave me, Sw(;et. 
Tak(5 the flowers, fx)ve. })ecause 

I'hey will wither in this heat. 

(tood night, dearest! Leave the door 

Half-way op(;n as you go. 
— Oh, thank (iod ! . . . Alone onf;e more. 

Am I dt(;aming V . . . JJreaming ? . . . r 

Still that music underneath 

VVor-ks to madness in my brain. 

Even tlie roses seem to breathe 
Toison'd perfiimes, full of j)ain. 

Let me think . . . my head is aching. 

r have little strength to think. 
And I know my heart is breaking. 

Yet, () love,' I will not shrink ! 

In his look was such sweet sadness. 

And Ik; fix'd that look on me. 
I was helpless. . . call it madness, 

(Jail it guilt . . . but it must be. 



428 THE wife's tkagedy. 

I can hear it, if, in losing 

All thinjis else, I lose him not. 

All the jirief is my own choosing. 
Can I mnrmur at my lot ? 

Ah, the night is bright and still 
Over all the fields I know. 

And the chestnuts on the hill : 
And the quiet lake below. 

By that lake I yet remember 

How, last year, we stood together 

One wild eve in warm September 
Bright with thunder : not a feather 

Stirr'd the slumbrous swans that floated 
Past the reed-beds, huslit and white : 

Towers of sultry cloud hung moated 
In the lake's unshaken light : 

Far behind us all the extensive 

Woodland blacken'd against heaven : 

And we sjioke not : — pausing pensive : 
Till the thunder-cloud was riven, 

And the black wood whiten'd under, 
And the storm began to roll. 

And the love laid up like thunder 
Burst at once upon my soul. 

There ! . . . the moon is just in crescent 

In the silent hajipy sky. 
And to-night the meanest peasant 

In her light's more blest than I. 

Other moons I soon shall see 
Over Asian headlands green : 

Ocean-spaces sjiarkling free 

Isles of breathless balm between : 



THE wife's tragedy. 429 

And the rosy-rislntr star 

At the setting of tlie day 
From tlie distant sandy bar 

Shining over Africa : 

Steering tliro' the glowing weather 

Past the tracts of crimson light, 
Down the sunset lost together 

Far athwart the summer niglit. 

" Canst thou make such life thy choice 
My heart's own, my chosen one V " 

So he whisper'd and his voice 
Had such magic in its tone ! 

But one hour ago we parted. 

And we meet again to-morrow. 
Parted — silent, and sad-hearted : 

And we meet — in guilt and sorrow. 

But we shall meet . . . meet, O God, 
To part never . . . the last time I 

Yes ! the Ordeal shall be trod. 

Burning ploughshares — love and crime ! 

O with him, with him to wander 
Thro' the wide world — only his ! 

Heart and hope and heaven to squander 
On the wild wealth of his kiss ! 

Then ? . . . like these poor flowers that wither 

In my bosom, to be thrown 
Lightly from him any whither 

When the sweetness all is flown ? 

Oh I know it all, my fate ! 

But the gulf is crost forever. 
And regret is born too late. 

The shut Past reopens never. 



430 THE wife's tragedy. 

Fear ? . . . I cannot fear ! for fear 
Dies with hope in every breast, 

Oh I see the frozen sneer, 

Careless smile, and callous jest ! 

But my shame shall yet be worn 
Like the purple of a Queen. 

I can answer scorn with scorn. 
Fool ! I know not what I mean. 

Yet beneath his smile (his smile !) 
Smiles less kind I shall not see. 

Let the whole wide world revile. 
He is all the world to me. 

So to-night all hopes, all fears. 
All the bright and. brief array 

Of my lost youth's happier years, 
With these gems I put away. 

Gone ! . . . so . . . one by one ... all gone ! 

Not one jewel I retain 
Of my life's wealth. All alone 

I tread boldly o'er my pain 

On to him . . . Ah, me ! my child — 
My own fair-hair'd, darling boy ! 

In his sleep just now he smiled. 
All his dreams are dreams of joy. 

How those soft long lashes shade 

That young cheek so husht and warm. 

Like a half-blown rosebud laid 
On the little dimpled arm ! 

He will wake without a mother. 

He will hate me when he hears 
From the cold lips of another 

All my faults in after years. 



THE wife's tragedy. 431 

None will tell the deep devotion 

Wherewith I have brooded o'er 
His young life, since its first motion 

Made me hope and pray once more. 

On my breast he smiled and slept, 
Smiled between my wrongs and me, 

Till the weak warm tears I wept 
Set my dry, coil'd nature free. 

Nay, . . . my feverish kiss would wake him. 

How can I dare bless his sleep ? 
They will change him soon, and make him 

Like themselves that never weep ; 

Fitted to the world's bad part : 

Yet, will all their wealth afford him 

Aught more rich than this lost heart 

Whose last anguish yearns toward him ? 

Ah, there's none will love him then 

As I love that leave him now ! 
He will mix with selfish men. 

Yes, he has his father's brow ! 

Lie thou there, thou poor rose-blossom, 

In that little hand more light 
Than upon this restless bosom. 

Whose last gift is given to-night. 

God forgive me ! — My God cherish 

His lone motherless infancy ! 
Would to-night that I might perish ! 

But heaven will not let me die. 

O love ! love ! but this is bitter ! 

O that we had never met ! 
O but hate than love were fitter ! 

And he too may hate me yet. 



432 THE wife's tragedy. 

Yet to liiin have I not given 

All life's sweetness '? . . . lame ? and name ? 
Hope '? and happiness ? and heaven '? 

Can he hate me for my shame ? 

" Child," he said, " thy life was glad 

In the dawning of its years ; 
And love's morn should be less sad, 

For his eve may close in tears. 

" Sweet in novel lands," he said, 

" Day by day to share delight ; 
On by soft surprises led. 

And tooether rest at night. 

" We will see the shores of Greece, 

And the temples of the Nile : 
Sail where summer suns increase 

Toward the sooth from isle to isle. 

" Track the first star that swims on 
Glowing depths toward night and us, 

While the heats of sunset crimson 
All the purple Bosphorus. 

" Leaning o'er some dark ship-side. 
Watch the wane of mighty moons ; 

Or thro' starlit Venice glide. 
Singing down the blue lagoons. 

" So from coast to coast we'll range. 

Growing nearer as we move 
On our charm'd way ; each soft change 

Only deepening changeless love." 

*Twas the dream which I, too, dream'd 
Once, long since, in days of yore. 

Life's long-faded fancies seem'd 
At his words to bloom once more. 



THE wife's tragedy. 433 

The old hope, the wrcckt belief, 

The lost light of vanisht years, 
Ere my heart was worn with grief, 

Or my eyes were dimm'd with tear ! 

When a careless girl I clung 

With proud trust to my own powers ; 

Ah, long since I, too, was young, 
I, too, dream'd of happier hours ! 

Whether this may yet be so, 

(Truth or dream) I cannot tell. 
But where'er his footsteps go 

Turns my heart, I feel too well. 

Ha ! the long night wears away. 

Yon cold drowsy star grows dim. 
The long fear'd, long wisht-for, day 

Comes, when I shall fly with him. 

In the laurel wakes the thrush. 

Thro' these dreaming chambers wide 
Not a sound is stirring. Hush ; 

— Oh, it was my child that cried ! 



II. 

THE POETRAIT. 

Yes, 'tis she ! Those eyes ! that hair 
With the selfsame wondrous hue ! 

And that smile — which was so fair, 
Is it strange I deemed it true ? 
28 



484 THE wife's tragedy. 

years, years, years T have not drawn 
.l>at'k this curtain ! there she stands 

By the terraee on the hwvn, 

With the white rose in her hands : 

And ahout her the armorial 
Scutcheons of a hauuhty race, 

Graven each Avith its memorial 
Of the oUl Lords of the Place. 

You, who do profess to see 
In the face the written mind, 

Loo}v in that face, and tell me 
In what part of it you lind 

All the I'alsehood, and the wronjv, 
And the sin, which must have been 

Hid in balel'ul beauty lonjij. 

Like the worm that lurks unseen 

Li the shut heart of the tlower. 

'Tis the Sex, no doubt ! And still 
Some n\ay lack the means, the power, 

There's not one that lacks the will. 

Their oavu Avay they seek the Devil, 
Ever prone to the deceiver ! 

If too deep 1 feel this evil 

And this shame, may God forgive her ! 

For I loved her, — loved, ay, loved her 
As a man just once may love. 

I so trusted, so approveil her, 
sSet her, blindly, so above 

This poor world Avhich was about her ! 

And (so loving" her) because, 
Wi<h a laith too high to doubt her, 

i, tbrsooth, but seldom was 



THE WUK'.S TJiAGEI^Y. 435 

At her feet with clamorous praises 

And protested tendc^rness 
(These thiiij^s some men can do) phrases 

On her face, perhaps her dress, 

Or the flower she chose to braid 

In her hair — because, you see. 
Thinking love's best proved unsaid, 

And by words the dignity 

Of true feeling's often lost, 

I was vow'<i to life's broad duty ; 

Man's great business uppermost 
In my mind, not woman's beauty ; 

Toiling still to win for her 

Honour, fortune, state in life 
(" Too much with the Minister, 

And too little with the wife ! ") 

Just for this, she flung aside 

All my toil, my heart, my name ; 

Trampled on my ancient pride, 
Turned my honour into shame. 

Oh, if this old coronet 

"Weigh'd too hard on her young brow, 
Need she thus dishonour it, 

Fling it in the dust so low ? 

But 'tis just these women's way — 
All the same the wide world over ! 

Fool'd by what's most worthless, they 
Cheat in turn the honest lover. 

And I was not, I thank heaven. 
Made, as some, to read them thro'. 

Were life thi-ee times longer even, 
There are better thin<^s to do. 



436 THK wife's tragedy. 

No ! to lot a -wonian lie 

Like a cankor, at the iv^ols 
Of a man's life, — burn it dry, 

Ni[) the blossom, stunt the fruits, 

This I eount botli shame and thrall ! 

Who is IVee to h'( one ereaturo 
Come between himself, and all 

The true process of his nature, 

While aeross the Avorld the nations 

Call to us that avo should share 
In their iiriefs, their exultations ? — 

All they will be, all they are ! 

And so much yet to be done — 

Wronji" to n)ot out, good to strengthen ! 

Sueh hard battles to be -won ! 

Sui'h long glories yet to lengthen ! 

'JSIid all these, how small one grief — 

One wreek'tl heart, whose hopes are o'er ! 

For myself I st'oru relief. 

For the peo}>lo 1 claim more. 

Strange ! these crowds Avhose instincts guide them 

Fail to get the thing they would, 
Till we nobles stand beside them, 

Give our names, or shed our blood. 

From of old this hath been so. 

For we too were with the llrst 
In the light fought long ago 

When tiie chain of Charles was burst. 

Who but we set Freedom's border 

Wrench'd at Kuunymede from John ? 

Who but we stand, towers of order, 
'Twixt the red cap and the Throne V 



THE wife's tragedy. 437 

And th(;y wrong us, P^ngland's Peers, 

Us, the vanguard of the land, 
Who should say the marcli of years 

Makes us shrink at Truth's right hand. 

'Mid the armies of Reform, 

To the People's cause allied, 
We — the forces of the storm ! 

We — the planets of the tide ! 

Do I seem too much to fret 

At my own peculiar woe ? 
Would to heaven I could forget 

How I loved her lonji ajjo ! 

As a father loves a child, 

So I loved her : — rather thus 
Than as youth loves, when our wild 

New-found passions master us. 

And — for I was proud of old 

('Tis my nature) — doubtless she 
In the man so calm, so cold. 

All the heart's warmth could not see. 

Nay, I blame myself— nor lightly. 

Whose chief duty was to guide 
Her young careless life more rightly 

Thro' the perils at her side. 

Ah, but love is blind ! and I 

Loved her blindly, blindly ! . . . Well, 
Who that ere loved trustfully 

Such strange danger could foretell ? 

As some consecrated cup 

On its saintly shrine secure. 
All my life seem'd lifted up 

On that heart I deem'd so pure. 



488 riiK \\iKK*s rijAiJiov. 

^Voll, iW mo tluM'O yot roinains 

I.aboiM' -that's inuoh : thou, tho stato : 

\\u\, what pays a thousaiul pains, 
Sonso o( rioht ami si-orn ot" tato. 

And. o\\. n\oro ' . . . niy own bravo hoy, 
With his tVank i\\u\ oauor brow. 

And his hoarty iniux'vMit joy. 
For as yot ho doos uo[ kninv 

All tho wronii' his tnothoi* did. 

^^'onhl that tins \nii>ht pass nnknown I 
For his yt)an<i' yoa\*s (Jod I'orbid 

1 should darkon by i\»y own. 

Yot this n\nst otMno . , . Hnt I moan 
Wo shall bo, as (in\o n\inos on. 

All his mothor »ni<;ht havo boon, 
C\>mtort. oonnsol both in owo. 

UiMibtloss. lirst, in that whii'h n\tnod n»o 
Man's strong- natnral wrath had part. 

"\Vn>n>i'd by iino 1 doom'd had lovod nu% 
FiH" I lovod hor tVvMn m\ ho;\rt ! 

\hi\ that's past I It" 1 was soro 

Ti) tho hoart. and bhml with shan\o, 

1 soo oahnly ntnv. Nay. moiv — 
V\>r I pity whoro I blamo. 

For. it' ho botray or i^i-iovo hor. 
What is horsto turn to still? 
And at last, whon ho shall loavo hor. 
As at last ho siu'oly will, 

Whoro shall sho lind rot'ni^o ? what 
That worst widi>whoi>d oati soothe '? 

V\>r tho Fast oonsolos hor not. 
Nor tho monuM'ios of hor youth. 



■n\i. vvifk'h 'riiAdKUY. iVJ 

NciUif'.r that w\i\t-]i in tho dmt 

Hhc hath filing' thr; nam<; nha U>ro ; 

iJut witfi li«;r own Mharnc, hIk'. rnunt 
l)w<;\\ fornnkt-.ti (•.v(;ru\(jrii. 

Nothirijir I'-.ft J'Ut y^tar.H ofan^uinh, 

An<l r<;fnorw5 hiit not roturri : 
^>f )ti;r own H«;ir-hat<t to lan;.'ui«4h ; 

For ]n',r Iong-)o«t pcacc to y«;arn : 

Or, y<;\. worM<t beyond all rnf.;iHur(i, 

Startinj.^ from wiM n;vc,ri<;«, 
Drain fho f»oi,Hon nii-,narn(j<J I'lfastin;, 

And lau;.di drunken on the Icch. 

f ) falne lieart ! O woman, woman, 

Woman I would thy tn'-aohery 
Ilful hr-.<5n !<;«»! For Hurcly no man 

lii-AUr loved than I loved thee. 

We, rniJHt never rri<'.et a;.'ain. 

Kveri HhouIdHt thou ref>ent IIk; pant. 
iJoth muHt HfiiVf.r : \KA\t feel pain : 

I'^re Ood p;irdori f>oth at lawt. 

Fare,we,ll, thou falne f'ar;e ! lyife Hpeed.s mc 

On its rJjjtieH. I munt H^rht : 
I miiHt, toil. Th*', I'e,r)ph; need<4 me: 

And I Hp<;ak for th(;m to-ni;.djt. 



m. 

THK LAST j\'ri:i:vn:w. 

Thanks, I)<;ar ! Put the lamp f|r>wri .... ho! 

Ff)r my eyes are, weak and dim. 
I low the, shadows eome, and i^o ! 

.S[>e,ak truth — liav(; the,y "rent for him ? 



-MO THK AVIKK8 TKA(,KnY. 

Ye.^ ? thank lloaven I Ami he will oomo. 
Come anil wati'h my ilyino- honi" — 

Tho' I lott anil shamoil his honu\ 
— I am \uthor\l liko this tlowor 

Which ho gavo mo lonix ago. 

' Twas upon n\y bridal ovo. 
When I swoi\> to love him so 

As a Avifo should — ssnilo or griovo 

AVith him, ibr him — and not shrink. 

And now ? () tho long, long pain 

Soo this snnkon ohook I You think 

Uo would know my taoo again ? 

All its wrotohod beauty gone ! 

Only tho iloop oare survives. 
Ah, oould yoai"s ot' griot* atone 

For those fatal hours I It drives 

Past the pain, tho bitter blast I 
li\ this garret one might t'ix>eze. 

Hark there I wheels below I At last 
lie is eome then ? ^'o . . . tho tivo* 

And the night-wind — nothing more ! 

Set the ohair tor him to sit, 
AVhen he eomes. Aiul elose the iloor, 

For the gust blows eold thi\V it. 

When I think, I eau remember 

I was born in eastle halls — 
IIow yon dull and dying ember 

Glares against the whitewasht walls ! 

If he eome not (inxt you said 
That the messengvr was sent 

Louii situ'o V) Tell him when I'm dead 
How my littt's last hours were spent 



THE wife's tragedy. 441 

In repenting that life's sin, 

And the room grows strangely dark ! 

See, tlie rain is oozing in. 

Set the lamp down nearer. Hark, 

Footsteps, footsteps on the stairs ! 

His . . . no, no! 'twas not the wind. 
God, I know, has heard my prayers. 

We shall meet. 1 am resign'd. 

Prop me up upon the pillows. 

Will he come to my bed.side ? 
Onee 'twas his ... . Among the willows 

How the water seems to glide ! 

Past the woods, the farms, the towers, 

It seems gliding, gliding thro'. 
" Dnarent .sv?^, Oicse younrj June-Jlowers^ 

I have pluckt them all for you, 

Here^ v;here pass'd my boyhood musing 
On the bride v^hich I mifjlit v^ed" 

Ah, it goes now ! I am losing 

All things. What was tliat he said ? 

Say, where am I V . . . this strange room V 

THE EAUL. 

Gertrude ! 

GERTRUDE. 

Ah, his voice ! I knew it. 
But this place ? .... Is this the tomb. 
With the cold dews creeping thro' it ? 



THE EARL. 

Gertrude I Gertrude ! 



442 THE avife's tragedy. 



GEUTKUDE. 

will you stand 

Near me ? Sit down. Do not stir. 
Tell n\e, may I take your hand V 

Tell me, will you look on her 

Who so wronpf'd you V I have wept 
() such tears tor that sin's sake ! 

And that thon<iht has ncyer slept, — ■ 
IJut it lies here, like a snake. 

In my bosom — ii;navvinQ;, onawing 
All my life uj) ! 1 had meant, 

Could I live yet .... Death is drawing 
Near me — 

THE EARL. 

(lod, thy punishment ! 
Dare T judge her ? — 

GEUTKUDE. 

O, believe me, 
'Twas a dream, a hideous dream. 
And I wake now. Do not leave me. 
I am dying. All things seem 

Failing from me — even my breath ! 

But my sentenee is trom old. 
Sin eame first upon me. Death 

Follows sin, soon, soon ! Behold, 

Dying thus ! Ah, why didst leave 
Lonely Loye's lost bridal bowers 

Where 1 found the snake, like Eve, 
Unsuspeeted 'mid the llowers V 



THE wife's tragedy. 443 

Had I been some poor man's bride 

I had shared with love his lot : 
Labour'd truly by his side, 

And made glad his lowly cot. 

I had been content to mate 

Love with labour's sunburnt brows. 

But to be a thing of state — 

Homeless in a husband's house ! 

In the gorgeous game — the strife 

For the dazzling prize — that moved you, 
Love seemed crowded out of life — 



THE EARL. 

Ah fool ! and I loved you, loved you ! 



GKIITRUDE. 

Yes. I see it all at last — 

All in ruins. I can dare 
To gaze down o'er my' lost past 

From these heights of my despair. 

Oh, when all seem'd grown most drear — ■ 

I was weak — I cannot tell — 
But the serpent in my ear 

Whisper'd, whispcr'd — and I fell. 

Look around, now. Does it cheer you 
This strange place ? the wasted frame 

Of the dying woman near you, 

Weigh'd into her grave by shame ? 

Can you trace in this wan form 
Aught resembling that young girl's 

Whom you loved once ? See, this arm — 
Shrunken, shrunken ! And my curls, 



AAA VUK w M \ s I «; v<;k\>v. 

Anil \\\y bi\>\vji }uv worn with \v»>o. 
WouKI y\>u. K>ok\ntf rtt ino» si\y 
SI\o WAS lovolv lonij {\g\> ? 

UuslvuuK «nswvr! In nil ihoso 

Atv \^M> n\>t {vvonuvil V U I 
(,\>nKl viso now, nj^on \ny knoos, 

At y\>nr loot, ivloiv Itiio. 

I w*>\»lvJ tall ilown in \ny stMM>>w 

Anil n\\ sh;\n\o. ami swy " t'ln^^lvo,** 

That whiv^h will Iv ilnst to \nonv\v, 
rivis woak olc\y I 

vnK ». vui, 

IWr sutUMvr. H\o ! 

t uhI tot^iiw^s. ShjUl \ not 5»v> ? 

Na\, <\ Wttor lit'o. in trnth, 
I tlo hojH> tvM\ Not bolow. 
r.uMnor ot' n\y jHMnsht yonth. 

UnsKuwl. wM\M\jiM ono ! T.ot \x>«r Wo^injj 

r>o with n\o. Voto\>\ to-nijjht. 
bVnu tho lito thcUV |v^st nn^ws.'^insj 

This ?itiN\\ M s\>nl nnjst tv-^ko its tlijjht I 

'IVat^. wrtvnx t\\^t^ ! \ tool tho\\\ o>vop 
lV>wn »ny ohook. *rort\>- not \ny ow t\. 

It i?J lonii sinoo I ov>nKl woo}>, 

l\\st ;ill tOiU"^ »ny jiiiot' hrtlh jjwwtv. 

0\\M^ this ilry withorM oluvk, 
l>i\>p by »l\v|v I t'vH^l thorn tj^lK 

Unt n\\ v\Moo is ji<\>wing wo»>^k : 
Anvl I h.wo nv>t spokon JxlK 



t hft/\ umt^t Ut »iy My v/n, 
My UM t'M'M ihfti fK',vt',r kin'.w uth \ 

All \m UuUi W'4y» (.tfitm Ut un% 

h hf*, iirowft y t ifawy U'un ! 

Siiffn that t'MtiU\i ' 
OVr ttty un'uyny %yr 

Aii'l U\n Utuif^ UhU ' I ■ I' r/,;>/,K y 

Or M wUui WH4 oit'h ? f Iw utfAitttr 

Urn \ui itrtfWfi U) iovti hitfAht^f-' 
Htftnh nirnfn//', wi/iitau tuA UUh inh V 

W'/fil'l !><{ H\nt'UU',r i/f \ti'.\nM 
'Wttn iffxUi i'lU'A', aiA ift^UA ionn 

li' Ut', kftt',w, ift (hyn tA' oUif 
Wnw Ut', %\itiiA>i-yi\ on my urin'/ 

\\h¥f \ tmrni him V l//v«yJ liiiri V uuwt^ti hirn 
All thj)» \uw^ U*'/4riUr<fki'jt imta'i 

h in yt'/dn mwa', V/tMi i km'd U'tm. 
lh/4^ Stii SiiiU', mti i'or my criwKjV 

i \iw\ mcHid ♦// mfi<i n/fin<i Ufkt',n — 
If, 'm<U',cA^ I tiftrt'A i/f mmi it 

'i'liii* ol/i cl»;iif»— Ukj lir»k» am \trh)um — 
/>ikij my yti'*'y-l c/mUi tuA uwaA \t. 

HuJtl/an'l, \tH%\niUt\ ! ( am <\yiu^i, 
hy'itiii ! Let mh iw\ yonr k\*M 

On my hrow wUf^ra I urn \yhi'/. 
Yon am itmut, t',wmii)t ior tU'tn ! 

Ami voull Uv uif',, w}»<;r< I'm ^<ftit% 
'- St A in \Uff*A', oH f/'M\]iUm'A wall* I 

Jy<jf no n;i»/i<j 1^? carv<;ri» no %\jmi^'- 
No MU'A'MiraS i'mmraU ! 



446 THE wife's tragedy. 

In some little grave of grass 

Anywhere, you'll let me lie : 
Where the nightwinds only pass, 

Or the clouds go floating by ; 

Where my shame may be forgot ; 

And the story of my life 
And my sin remember'd not. 

So forget the faithless wife ; 

Or if, haply, when I'm dead, 

On some worthier happier breast 

Than mine was, you lean your head, 
Should one thought of me molest 

Those calm hours, recall me only 
As you see me — worn with tears : 

Dying desolate here ; left lonely 
By the overthrow of years. 

May I lay my arm, then, there ? 

Does it not seem strange to you. 
This old hand among your hair ? 

And these wasted fingers too ? 

How the lamp wanes ! All grows dark — 
Dark and strange. Yet now there shined 

Something past me ... . Husband, hark ! 
There are voices on the wind. 

Are they come ? and do they ask me 
For the songs we used to sing ? 

Strange that memory thus should task me ! 
Listen — 

Birds are on the wing : 

And thy Birthday Morn is rising. 

May it ever rise as bright ! 
Wake not yet ! The day's devising 

Fair new things for thy delight. 



THE wife's tragedy. 447 

Wake not yet ! Last night this Jiower 

Near thy ■porch heyan to pout 
From its luarm sheath: in an hour 

All the young leaves luill he out. 

Wake not yet ! So dear thou art, love, 

That I grudge these buds the bliss 
Each ivill bring to thy young heart, love, 
1 looidd claim all for my kiss. 

Wake not yet ! 

— There now, it fails me ! 

Is my lord there ? I am ill. 
And 1 cannot tell what ails me. 

Husband ! Is he near me still ? 

Oh, this anguish seems to crush 
AH my life up — body and mind ! 

THE EARL. 

Gertrude ! Gertrude ! Gertrude ! 



Plush ! 



GERTKUDE. 

There are voices in the wind. 

THE EARL. 

Still she wanders ! Ah, the plucki 
At the sheet ! 



GERTRUDE. 

Hist ! do not take it 
From my bosom. See, 'tis sucking ! 
If it sleep we must not wake it 

Such a little rosy mouth ! 

— Not to night, O not to-night ! 
Did he tell me in the South 

That those stars were twice as brisjht ? 



448 THE wife's tragedy. 

Off ! away ! unhand me — go ! 

I forgive tliee my lost heaven, 
And the wrong which thou didst do. 

Would my sin, too, were forgiven ! 

Gone at last ! . . . Ah, fancy feigns 
These wild visions ! I grow weak. 

Fast, fast dying ! Life's warmth wanes 
From me. Is the fire out ? 

THE EARL. 

Speak, 
Gertrude, speak ! My wife, my wife 1 

Nay she is not dead, — not dead ! 
See, the lips move. There is life. 

She is choking. Lift her head. 

GERTRUDE. 

****** 

Death ! . . . My eyes grow dim, and dimmer. 

I can scarcely see thy face. 
But the twilight seems to glimmer, 

Lighted from some distant place. 

Husband ! 

THE EARL. 

Gertrude ! 

GERTRUDE. 

Art thou near me ? 
On thy breast — once more — thy breast ! 
I have sinn'd — and — nay, yet hear me, 
And repented — and — 

THE EARL. 

The rest 
God hath heard, where now thou art, 



THE wife's tragedy. 449 

Thou poor soul, — in Heaven. 

The door- 
Close it softly, and depart. 
Leave us ! 

She is mine once more. 



29 



MINOR POEMS. 



THE PARTING OF LAUNCELOT AND 
GUENEVERE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Now, as the time "wore by to Our Lady's Day, 
Spring linger'd in the chambers of the South. 
The nijihtingales were lar in fairy lands 
Beyond the sunset : but the wet bhie woods 
Were half aware of violets in the -wake 
Of morning rains. The swallow still delay 'd 
To build and be about in noisy roofs, 
And March was moaning in the windy elm. 

But Arthur's royal purpose held to keep 
A joust of arms to solemnize the time 
In stately Camelot. So the King sent forth 
His heralds, and let cry thro' all the land 
That he himself would take the lists, and tilt 
Against all comers. 

Hither came the chiels 
Of Christendom. The King of Northgalies ; 
Anguishe, the King of Ireland ; the llaut Prince, 
Sir Galahault; the King o' the Hundred Knights; 
The Kings of Scotland and of I>ritany ; 
And many more renowned knights whereof 
The names are glorious. Also all the earls. 
And all the dukes, and all the mighty men 



PARTING OF LAUNCELOT AND GUENEVERE. 451 

And famous heroes of the Table Kound, 
From far Northumberland to where the wave 
Rides rough on Devon from the outer main. 
So that there was not seen for seven years, 
Since when, at Whitsuntide, Sir Galahad 
Departed out of Carlyel from the court, 
So fair a fellowship of goodly knights. 

Then would King Arthur that the Queen should 

ride 
With him from Carlyel to Camelot 
To see the jousts. But she, because that yet 
The sickness was upon her, answer'd nay. 
Then said King Arthur, " This repenteth me. 
For never hath been seen for seven years, 
No, not since Galahad, at Whitsuntide, 
Departed from us out of Carlyel, 
So fair a fellowship of goodly knights." 
But the Queen would not, and the King in wrath 
Brake up the court, and rode to Astolat 
On this side Camelot. 

Now men said the Queen 
Tarried behind because of Launcelot, 
For Launcelot staid to heal him of his wound. 
And there had been estrangement 'twixt these 

two 
r the later time, because of bitter words. 
So when the King with all his fellowship 
Was ridden out of Carlyel, the Queen 
Arose, and call'd to her Sir Launcelot. 

Then to Sir Launcelot spoke Queen Guenevere. 

" Not for the memory of that love whereof 
No more than memory lives, but. Sir, for that 
Which even when love is ended yet endures 
Making immortal life with deathless deeds, 
Honour — true knighthood's golden spurs, the crown 
And priceless diadem of peerless Queens — 



452 PAUTING OF LAUNOKLOT AND GUKXKVKRE. 

1 make appeal lo you, tliat hoar ])ei"oliaiu'o 
The last appeal wh'u-h 1 shall over make. 
So woiiih my words not lightly ! I'or 1 feel 
The lluttoriniv lires of lite grow faint and cold 
About my heart. And oft, indeed, to me 
Lying whole hours awake in the iload nights 
The end seems near, as tlio' the darkness knew 
The angel waiting there to eall my soul 
Perehanee before the honse awakes ; and oft 
AVhon faint, and all at once, from far away, 
The monrnfid midnight bolls begin to sound 
Across the river, all the days that were 
(Brief, evil days!) return upon my heart, 
And, where the sweetness seem'd, I see the sin. 
For, waking lone, long hours before the dawn, 
Beyoml the borders of the dark 1 seem 
To see the twilight of another world. 
That grows and grows and glinnnoi's on my gaze. 
And oft, when late, betbre the languorous moon 
Thro' yonder windows to the ^^\^st goes down 
Among the pines, doe[) peace upon me falls, 
Deo}) peace like death, so that 1 think 1 know 
The blessed Mary and the righteous saints 
Stand at the throne, and intercede for me. 
AVherefore these things are thus I cannot tell. 
But now I pray you of your fealty, 
And by all knightly faith which may be left, 
xVrise and get you hence, and join the King. 
For wherefore hold you thus behind the court, 
Seeing my liege the King is moved in wrath '? 
For wete you well what say your foes and mine. 
' See how Sir Launeelot aiul C^ueen (nienevere 
Do hold them over thus behind the King- 
That they may take their pleasure ! ' Knowing not 
How that for me all those ilolights are come 
To be as withorM violets." 

Half in tears 
She ceased abrupt. Ciiven up to a proud griet, 



PARTING OF LAUXCELOT AND GUENEVERE. 453 

Vex'd to be vext. With love and anger moved. 
Love toucht with scorn, and anger pierced with 

love. 
About her, all unheeded, her long hair 
Loos'd its warm, yellow, waving loveliness, 
And o'er her bare and shining shoulder cold 
Fell floating free. Upon one full white arm, 
To which the amorous purple coverlet 
Clung dimpling close, her drooping state was propt. 
There, half in shadow of her soft gold curls. 
She lean'd, and like a rose enricht witli dew. 
Whose heart is heavy with the clinging bee, 
Bow'd down toward him all her glowing face, 
While in the light of her large angry eyes 
Uprose, and rose, a slow imperious sorrow. 
And o'er the shine of still, unquivering tears 
Swam on to him. 

But he, with brows averse 
And orgolous looks, three times to speech address'd, 
Three times in vain. The silence of the place 
Fell like a hand upon his heart, and hush'd 
His foolish anger with authority. 
He would not see the wretched Queen : he saw 
Only the hunter on the arrass'd wall 
Prepare to wind amort his bugle horn. 
And the long daylight dying down the floors. 
For halfway through the golden gates of eve 
The sun was roU'd. The dropping tapestry glow'd 
With awful hues. Far ofl" among his reeds 
The river, smitten with a waning light, 
Shone : and, behind black lengths of pine reveal'd, 
The red West smoulder'd, and the day declined. 
Then year by year, as wave on wave a sea, 
The tided Past came softly o'er his heart, 
And all the days which had been. 

' So he stood 
Long in his mind divided : with himself 



454 PARTING OF LAUNCELOT AND GUENEVERE. 

At strife : and, like a steed that hotly chafes 
His silver bit, which yet some silken rein 
Sway'd by a skill'd acciistom'd hand restrains, 
His heart against the knowledge of its love 
Made vain revolt, and fretful rose and sunk. 
But at the last, quelling a wayward grief. 
That swell'd against all utterance, and sought 
To force its salt and sorrowful overflow 
Upon weak language, " Now indeed," he cried, 
" I see the face of the old time is changed, 
And all things alter'd ! Will the sun still burn ? 
Still burn the eternal stars ? For love wa.s deem'd 
Not less secure than these. Needs should there be 
Something remarkable to prove the world 
I am no more that Launcelot, nor thou 
That Guenevere, of whom, long since, the fame, 
Fi'uitful of noble deeds, with such a light 
Did fill this nook and cantle of the earth, 
That all great lands of Christendom beside 
Show'd darken'd of their glory. But I see 
That there is nothing left for men to swear by. 
For then thy will did never urge me hence, 
But drew me thro' all dangers to thy feet. 
And none can say, least thou, I have not been 
The staff and burgonet of thy fair fame. 
Nor mind you. Madam, how in Surluse once, 
AVhen all the estates were met, and noble judges, 
Arm'd clean with shields, set round to keep the 

right. 
Before you sitting throned with Galahault 
In great array, on fair green quilts of samyte. 
Rich, ancient, fringed with gold, seven summer 

days. 
And all before the Earls of Northgalies, 
Such service then with this old sword was wrought, 
To crown thy beauty in the courts of Fame, 
That in that time fell many noble knights, 
And all men marvell'd greatly ? So when last 
The loud horns blew to lodging, and we supp'd 



PARTING OF LAUNCELOT AND GUENEVERE. 455 

With Palamedes and with Lamorak, 

All those great dukes and kings, and famous queens, 

Beholding us with a deep joy, avouch'd 

Across the golden cups of costly wine 

' There is no Queen of love but Guenevere, 

And no true knight but Launcelot of the Lake ! ' " 

Thus he, transported by the thought of days 
And deeds that, like the mournful martial sounds 
Blown thro' sad towns where some dead king goes 

Made music in the chambers of his heart, 
Swept by the mighty memory of the past. 
Nor spake the sorrowful Queen, nor from deep 

muse 
Unbent the grieving beauty of her brows, 
But held her heart's proud pain superbly still. 

But when he lifted up his looks, it seem'd 

Something of sadness, in the ancient place. 

Like dying breath from lips beloved of yore, 

Or unforgotten touch of tender hands 

After long years, upon his spirit fell. 

For near the carven casement hung the bird, 

With hood and jess, that oft had led them forth, 

These lovers, thro' the heart of ripling woods 

At morning, in the old and pleasant time. 

And o'er the broider'd canopies of state 

Blazed Uther's dragons, curious, wrought with 

gems. 
Then to his mind that dear and distant dawn 
Came back, when first, a boy at Arthur's court, 
He paused abasht before the youthful Queen. 
And, feeling now her long imploring gaze 
Holding him in its sorrow, when he mark'd 
How changed her state, and all unlike to her. 
The most renowned beauty of the time, 
And pearl of chivalry, for whom himself 
All on a summer's day broke, long of yore 



456 r\KTlN(^ OK l.Al'NOKLOT AND (iUKNKVERK. 

A Imndrcil laucrs in tlio Tu'ld, In' spranij; 
Aiul t';iiiiili( luM' liaiul, and, laHin<2, lo ono knee, 
Arch'd all Ills haiiiility nock (o a (|nl('k kiss. 
And tluM'o >vas sIKmu-o. Silently llio West 
(ireAv red and roddiM-, and the day deollnod. 

As o'vv llie lnin<2;(>rinii' heart ol' S(nne deep sea, 
I'hat swells against (lu* planets and the moon 
AVitli sad eontinnal strllt> and vain nnrest, 
Jn silenee rise and loll the labonrino- elouds 
That bind the tluinder. o'cv tlu> heavin<: heart 
Of (Jnenevere all sorrows franiiht with love, 
All sti)rniy sorrows, in that silenee pass'd. 
And like a star in that tinnnltnons nii»ht 
liOve wa\'d aiul wamul, and eanie and -went, 

ehaniiod hue, 
And was and was not : till the elond eanie down, 
And all her sonl dissolved in showers : and love 
Ivose thro' the broken storm : and, with a ery 
Of l^assion sheath'd in sharpest pain, she streteliM 
Wide her w arm arms : she rose, she reel'd, and fell 
(All her great heart nn(|neen'd) npon the breast 
Of Jianni'elot ; and, lilting- np her voiee. 
She weptalond " llnhaj)))y that 1 am," 
She wei>t, " Unhappy ! VVonld that 1 had died 
Long- slnee, lon<^- ere I loved thee l.auneelot ! 
AVonld 1 had died lonu; sint'e ! ere 1 had known 
This pain, whieh hath beeome my pnnishment, 
'J\> have thirsted lor the sea : to have received 
A drop no biuiior than a droi> ot" dew^ ! 
1 have done ill," she wept, " 1 am forlorn, 
Forlorn ! I talter where 1 stood seenre : 
The tower 1 bnilt is lall'n, is fall'n : the staiV 
1 leanM npon hath broken in my hand. 
And 1, disrobed, dethroned, diserownM, and all un- 
done, 
Survive my kiuiidom, widowM of all rule. 
And men shall moek me tor a foolish Queen. 
For now 1 see thy love for me is deail, 



j'AiiTiN^; OF lai:nci;i,0'i am> (;i;i:m;vki{i:. 457 

I)(;a<l tliat hricllovc vvliir-li was the li;:lit of life, 
Am<1 all is dark : and I liav(; lived too long. 
J''or liow lieruteforfh, unliapj^y, shall i bear 
To dwell ainorig these halls wh(M-e wc liave been ? 
How ke(!p thes(i chairib(;iH (^npticMl of thy voice V 
TlKi walks when; w(; have lin^'er'd Ion;; a^o, 
The ;.'ard(;ns and the places of our love, 
Whirh shall iccall the days that come no more, 
And all the joy which has been V " 

Thus o'erthrown, 
And on tin; breast of Launcelot weepin^r wild — 
Weeping and murmuring — hung Queen Guene- 

v(!re. 
I>ut, whih; she wc;})!, ufjon her brows and lips 
Warm kiss(!S fell, warm klss(;s wet with tears. 
Foj- all his mind was nK^lted with remorse, 
And all his scorn was kill'cJ, and all his heart 
(iave way in that caress, and all the love 
Of ha[)pier years rollM down upon liis soul 
Redoubled; and he bowM his head, and cried, 

" Tho' thf;u b(! variable as the waves, 

More shar[) than winds among the llebrides 

'J'hat shut th(! fro/en Sf)ring in stormy clouds, 

As wayward as a child, and all unjust, 

Yet nmst I love thee in dcsfiite ol" pain, 

Thou j)eerlcss (2""'''" ^>f ft<'-rf(!ct love ! Tliou star 

That draw'st all tides ! 'J'liou goddess far above 

My heart's W(^ak w(jrship ! so adored thou art. 

And I so iri-elrievably all thitK; ! 

J)Ut now I will ai'ise, as thou hast said, 

And join the King: and thes(? thine enemies 

Shall know thee not defenceless any more. 

For, (iither, living, I yet hold my life 

To arm for thine, or, dying, by my deatli 

Will ste(!p love's injured honour in such blood 

Shall wash out every stain ! And so farewell 

r>elov'(]. Forget me not when 1 am far, 

Jiut in thy prayers and in thine evening thoughts 



458 PAllTINC. OF LAUNCKLOT AND GUENEVERE. 

Romombcr nio, : as 1, Avlieu sundown crowns 

I'lic distant liills, and Ave-Mary vinjis, 

Shall pine for thoc on ways where thou art not." 

So these two lovers in one lonji; embrace, 

An a<iony ot" reconcilement, hunjii; 

l>lin(ied in tears and kisses, lip to lip, 

And tranced from past and future, time and space. 

But by this time, tlie beam of the slope day, 

Kdf^inji; blue mountain jxlooms with sullen gold, 

A dyinii' fire, fell mournfully athwart 

Tlu^ purple chambcM-s. In the courts below 

'Vhti shadow of the kee]) from wall to wall 

Shook his dark skirt : <i;reat chimes beii'an to sound, 

And swinLj, and rock in glimmering heinhts, and 

roll" 
A reeling music down : but ere it fell 
Faint bi'lls in misty spires adown the vale 
Caught it, and bore it iloating on to night. 

So from that long love-trance the envious time 
Keclaim'd them. Then with a great pang he rose, 
Like one that ])luck'd his heart out from his breast, 
And, bitterly unwinding her white arms 
Fi'om the warm circle of their amorous fald, 
Left living on her lips the lingering heat 
Of one long kiss : and, gathering strongly back 
His pour'd out anguish to his soul, he went. 

And the sun set. 

Long while she sat alone. 
Searching the silence with her fixed eyes, 
AVhile far and farther oil" o'er distant lloors 
The intervals of brazen echoes fell. 
A changeful light, from varying passions caught, 
FlushM all her stately cheek from Avhite to red 
In doubtful alternation, as some star 



A SIJNSKT FANCY. 459 

Cliaiiuvs Ills fiery beanly : for hvr blood 

Sot lu';ull()ii<jj to all wayward inoods of sense, 

Slirr'd with swift ebb and How: till suddenly nil 

Tlie frozen liei«;lits of <]jrief f(;ll loosed, fast, fast, 

In eataract over eataract, on her sonl. 

Then at the last she rose, a reeling shape 

That like a shadow sway'd ajjjainst the wall, 

Her sliglit hand held upon her l)osoni, and fell 

Before the Virgin Motlier on Iwr knees. 

There, in a halo of the silver shrine, 

That toueh'd and turn'd to starliiiht her slow tears, 

])elow the feet of tlu; pale-[)ictur'd saint 

She lay, pour'd out in })rajcr. 

Meanwhile, without, 
A sighino- rain from a low fi-inge of cloud 
Whisj)ei'M anionn; the melancholy hills. 
The ni<«;ht's dark limits widen'd : far above 
The crystal sky lay open : and the star 
Of eve, his rosy circlet tremblini; clear, 
(Jrew larn'c and bright, and in the silver moats, 
Between the accmnnlatcd t(MTaces, 
Taniiled a trail of fire : and all was still. 



A SUNSET FANCY. 

JnsT at sunset, 1 would be 

In some isle-garden, where the sea 

I look into shall seem more })lne 

Than those dear and deej) eyes do. 

And, if anywhere the bree/e 

Shall hav(! stirr'd the cypress trees, 

Straiji'lit the yellow light falls thro', 

Cat(;hing me, for'once, at ease; 

rlust so nnich as may impinge 

Some tall lily with a tinge 

Of orange; while, above the wall, 



460 A SUNSET FANCY. 

Tumbles downward into view, 
(With a sort of small surprise) 
One star more among them all, 
For me to watch w^tli half-shut eyes. 

Or else ujion the breezy deck 
Of some Felucca ; and one speck 
'Twixt the crimson and the yellow, 
Which may be a little fleck 
Of cloud, or gull with outstretcht neck, 
To Spezia bound from Cape Circello; 
With a sea-song in my ears 
Of the bronzed buccaneers: 
While the night is waxing mellow, 
And the helmsman slackly steers — 
Leaning, talking to his fellow, 
AVho has oaths for all he hears — 
Each thief swarthier than Othello. 
Or, in fault of better things, 
Close in sound of one who sings 
To casements, in a southern city ; 
Tinkling upon tender strings 
Some melodious old love-ditty ; 
While a laughing lady flings 
One rose to him, just for pity. 

But I have not any want 

Sweeter than to be with you, 

When the long light falleth slant, 

And heaven turns a darker blue ; 

And a deeper smile grows thro' 

The glance asleep 'neath those soft lashes, 

Which the heart it steals into 

First inspires and then abashes. 

Just to hold your hand — one touch 

So light you scarce should feel it such ! 

Just to Avatch you leaning o'er 

Those window-roses, love, ... no more. 



ASSOCIATIONS. 461 



ASSOCIATIONS. 

You know the place is just the same! 

The rooks build here : the sandy hill Is 
Ablaze with broom, as when she came 
Across the sea with her new name 

To dwell among the moated lilies. 

The trifoly is on the walls : 

The daisies in the bowling-alley : 

The ox at eve lows from the stalls : 

At eve the cuckoo, floating, calls. 

When foxgloves tremble in the valley. 

The iris blows from court to court : 
The bald Avhite spider flits, or stays in 

The chinks behind the dragonwort: 

That Triton still, at his old sport. 
Blows bubbles in his broken basin. 

The terrace where she used to walk 
Still shines at noon between the roses : 

The garden paths are blind with chalk : 

The dragonfly from stalk to stalk 

Swims sparkling blue till evening closes. 

Then, just above that long dark copse, 

One warm red star comes out, and passes 
Westward, and mounts, and mounts, and stops 
(Or seems to) o'er the turret-tops. 

And lights those lonely casement-glasses. 

Sir Ralph still wears that old grim smile. 

The staircase creaks as up I clamber 
To those still rooms, to muse awhile. 
I see the little meadow-stile 

As I lean from the great south-chamber. 



462 MKICTIN(J AGAIN. 

And Lady Ivtilli is just as Avlute. 

(Ah, still, that lacd socnis stran<i-ely like her !) 
The lady and the wicked knight — 
AH jtist the same — slie swooiiM for fri^rht — 

And he — his arm still raised to strike her. 

Her boudoii" — no one enters there : 

The very llowers which hist she <];athcr'd 
Are in the vase; the Inte — the chair — 
And all things— just as then they were ! 
JOx(;ept the jasmins — those are wither'd. 

But when alon*]; the corridors 

The last red pause ol' day is streaming, 

I seem to hear her np the tlooi-s: 

1 seem to see her thro' the doors : 

And then I know that I am dreaminir. 



MEETING AGAIN. 

Yks ; T remember the white rose. And since then 

the yonno- ivy has j^rown ; 
From your wimlow we could not reach it, and now 

it is over the stone. 
We did not part as we meet. Dear. Well, Time 

hath his own stern cures ! 
And Alice's eyes are deeper, and her hair has 

orown like yours. 

Is our greeting all so strange then ? But there's 

something here amiss, 
When it is not well to speak kindly. And the 

olives are ripe by this. 
[ had not thought you so alter'd. But all is 

ehang(>d, ( Jod knows ! v 

Good-night. It is night so soon now. Look there ! 

you have droi)t your rose. 



ARISTOCRACY. — THE MKRMAIDEN. 463 

Nay, I have one that is wither'd and dearer to mc. 

1 came 
To say good-night, little Alice. She does not 

remember my name. 
It is but the damp tliat is making my head and my 

heart ache so. 
I never was strong in the old time, as the others 

were, you know. 

And you'll sleep well, will you not, Darling? The 

old words sound so dear ! 
'Tis the last time 1 shall use them; you need show 

neither anger nor fear. 
It is well that you look so cheerful. And is time 

so smooth with you V 
How foolish I am ! Good-night, Dear. And bid 

Alice ffood-niffht too. 



ARISTOCRACY. 

To thee be all men heroes : every race 
Noble : all women virgins : and each place 
A temple : know thou nothing that is base. 



THE MEUMAIDEN. 

IIk was a Prince with golden hair 

(In a palace besidci the sea), 
And I but a ])oor Mermalden — 

And how should he care for me ? 

Last sunnn(>r I came, in the long blue nights, 
To sit in the cool sea-caves : ' 



464 Vr UIK t AS KM I.N T. 

L;\st smunior ho onnio to couiU (ho stars 
From his torraoo abovo tlio waves. 

Tlioro's nothinu' so tair In tho soa down thoro 

As tho hixht on his ^iWdon trossos: 
Thoro's nothinii' so swoot as his vi>loo : all. nothin; 

So warn\ as tho wanmh ot" his kisses ! 

1 oonUl not holp bnt hno him, li>\ o him, 

Till my lovo arow pain to mo. 
Ami to-niorrow ho woils tho Princess 

In that palace beside the sea. 



AT iiKK rASi:Mi:N r. 

T AM knee-deep in grass, in this warm Jnne-night, 
In tho shade here, shut otV trom the ijivat moon- 
light. 
All alone, at her casement there. 
8he sits in the light, and she eon\bs her hair. 
She shakes it over the earven seat. 
And combs it down to her stately toot. 
And I watch her. hid ii\ tho blue ,hine-night, 
Till my sonl grows t'aint with the costly sight. 

There's no tlaw on that tair tine brow of hei*s. 
As tair and as proud as Lueiter's. 
She looks in the glass as she tnrns her heail : 
She knows that the rose on her cheek is red : 
She knows how her dark eyes shine — their light 
AVould scarcely be dhnm'd tho* 1 died to-night. 

I would that there in her chamber 1 stood, 
FuU-taco to her terrible beauty : 1 would 
1 were laid on her ipieenly biva:>t, at her lips. 
With her warm hair wound thro' my iinger-tips, 



AN KVKNING IN TUSCAN Y. 4Cjl 

Drainiri;^ }ior soul at f>nf; doop-flrawn kiss. 
Ari(J I would bt; hurrihly oontcnt for tnis 
To (li(!, as is fiu<;, b(;fbrc the morn, 
Kill'd by her slovvly-r(;tuiriirig scorn. 



A FAIIEVVELL. 

I*K happy, cliild. The last wild words arc spoken. 
I'o-rriorrow, mine no more, tlie world will elaim 

thee. 
I blame thee? not. But all my life is broken. 
Of that brief J*ast I liavc no «in;:Ie token. 
Never in years to eome my lips shall name thee, 
Never, child, never ! 

I will not say " For^^et me ;" nor those liours 
Which were so sweet. Some scent dead leaves 

retain. 
Keep all the flowers I gave thee — all the flowers 
Dead, dead ! 'J'ho' years on years of life were ours, 
As yva have met we shall not meet again ; 
Forever, child, forev(;r ! 



AN EVENING IN TUSCANY. 

Lo«^)K ! the Sim sets. Now's the rarest 

Hour of all the blessed day. 
(Just the hour, love, you look fairest !) 

Even the snails are out to play. 

Cool the breeze mounts, like this Chianti 
Which I drain down to the sun. 

— There ! shut up that old green Dante — 
Turn the page, where we begun, 
30 



466 AX EVENING IN TUSCANY. 

At the last news of Ulysses — 

A oraml iinaiio, fit to closo 
Just such i^rand gold eves as this is, 

Full ot'spleudoiir ami repose ! 

So loop \ip those long bright tresses — 

Only, one or two must tall 
Down yonr warm neck Evenin^j kisses 

Thro' the soft curls spite of all. 

Ah hut rest in your still plaee there ! 

Stir not — turn not! the warm pleasure 
Coming, going in your face there. 

And the rose (no richer treasure) 

In your bosom, like my love there, 
,Iust half secret and half seen ; 

Ai\d the soft light trom above there 
Streaming o'er you where you lean, 

With yonr tair head in the shatlow 
Of that grass hat's glancing brim, 

Like a daisy in a meadow 

Which its own deep fringes dim. 

O you laugh — you cry " What folly ! " 
Yet you'd scarcely have me wise. 

If I judge right, judging wholly 
l^y the secret in your eyes. 

Ibit look ilowi\ now, o'er the city 
Sleeping sot't among the hills — 

Our dear Florence ! That great Fitti 
With its steady shadow fills 

Half the town up : its imwinking 
Cold white wimlows as they ghire 

J)own the long streets, set one thinking 
Of the old bukes who lived there ; 



AN KVENING IN TUSCANY. 467 

And one, pictures those strange men so! — 

Subtle brains, and iron thews ! 
There, the gardens of Lorenzo — 

Tlie long cypress avenues — 

Creep up slow the stately hill-side 

Where the merry loungers are. 
But far more 1 love this still side — 

The blue plain you see so far ! 

Where the shore of bright white villas 
Leaves off faint : the purple breadths 

Of the olives and the willows : 

And the gold-rimm'd mountain-widths : 

All transfused in slumbrous glory 

To one burning point — the sun ! 
But up here — slow, cold, and hoary 

Reach the olives, one by one : 

And the land looks fresh : the yellow 

Ari)ute-berries, here and there, 
Growing slowly ripe and mellow 

Thro' a Hush of rosy hair. 

For the Tramontana last week 

Was about : 'Tis scarce three weeks 

Since the snow lay, one white vast streak, 
Upon those old purple peaks. 

So to-day among the grasses 

One may pick up tens and twelves 

Of young olives, as one passes, 
Blown about, and by themselves 

Blackening sullen-ripe. The corn too 
(Irows each da}' from green to golden. 

The large-eyed windllowers forlorn too 
Blow among it, unbeholden : 



468 AN EVENING IN TUSCANY. 

Some white, some crimson, others 
Purple blackening to the heart. 

From the deep wheat-sea, which smothers 
Their bright globes up, how they start ! 

And the small wild pinks from tender 

Feather-grasses peep at us : 
While above them burns, on slender 

Stems, the red gladiolus : 

And the grapes are green : this season 
They'll be round and sound and true, 

If no after-blight should seize on 
Those young bunches turning blue. 

O that night of purple weather! 

(Just before the moon had set) 
You remember how together 

We walk'd home ? — the grass was wet — 

The long grass in the Podere — 
With the balmy dew among it : 

And that Nightingale — the fairy 
Song he sung — O how he sung it ! 

And the fig-trees had grown heavy 
With the young figs white and woolly : 

And the fireflies, bevy on bevy 
Of soft sparkles, pouring fully 

Their warm life thro' trance on trances 
Oflhick citron-shades behind, 

Rose, like swarms of loving fancies 
Thro' some rich and pensive mind. 

So we reach'd the Logia. Leaning 
Faint, we sat there in the shade. 

Neither spoke. The night's deep meaning 
Fill'd the silence up unsaid. 



SONG. 

Hoarsely thro' the Cypress-alley 

A Civetta out of tune 
Tried his voice by fits. The valley 

Lay all dark below the moon. 

Until into song you burst out — 
That old song I made for you 

When we found our rose — the first out 
Last sweet Spring-time in the dew. 

Well ! ... if things had gone less wildly- 
Had I settled down before 

There, in England — labour'd mildly — 
And been patient — and learn'd more 

Of how men should live in London — 
Been less happy — or more wise — 

Left no great works tried, and undone— 
Never look'd in your soft eyes — 

I . .' . but what's the use of thinking ? 

There ! our Nio-htingale becrins — 
JNow a rismg note — now smkmg 

Back in little broken rings 

Of warm song that spread and eddy — 
Now he picks up heart — and draws 

His great music, slow and steady, 
To a silver-centred pause ! 



SONG. 

The purple iris hangs his head 
On his lean stalk, and so declines 

The spider spills his silver thread 
Between the bells of columbines : 



470 SONG. 

An alter'd liiiht in flit'kerino- eves 

Draws clews thro' these dim eyes of ours; 
Death walks in yonder waning bowers, 
And burns the bhstering leaves. 
Ah, well-a-day ! 
Blooms overblow : 
Suns sink away : 
Sweet things decay. 

The drunken beetle, roused ere night, 

Breaks blundering from the rotting rose, 
Flits thro' blue spidery aconite. 
And hums, and comes, and goes: 
His thick, bewilder'd song receives 
A drowsy sense of grief like ours : 
He hums and hums alnong the bowers. 
And bangs about the leaves. 
Ah, well-a-day ! 
Hearts ovei-tlow: 
Joy tlits away : 
Sweet things decay. 

Her yellow stars the jasmin drops 

In mihhiw'd mosses one by one: 

The hollyhocks fall off their tops : 

The lotus-blooms ail white i' the sun : 
The freckled Ibx-glove faints and grieves : 
The smooth-paced slumbrous slug devoui-s 

The glewy globes of gorgeous tlowers, 
And smears the glistering leaves ! 
Ah, well-a-day ! 
Life leaves us so. 
Love dare not stay. 
Sweet things decay. 

From brazen sunflowers, orb and fringe, 
The burning burnish dulls and dies : 

Sad Autumn sets a sullen tinge 
Upon the scornful peonies : 



SEA-SIDE SONGS. 471 

The dewy fropf limps out, and heaves 
A speckled lump in speckled bowers : 
A reekinc; moisture, clings, and lowers 
The lips of lapping leaves. 
Ah, well-a-day ! 
Ere the cock crow, 
Life's charm' d array 
Reels all away. 



SEA-SIDE SONGS. 

I. 

Drop down below the orbed sea, 

O lino-erino; lifjht in jrlowing skies, 
And bring my own true-love to me — 
My dear true-love across the sea — 
With tender-lighted eyes. 

For now the gates of Night are flung 
Wide-open her dark coasts among : 

And the happy stars crowd up, and up, 

Like bubbles that brighten, one by one, 
To the dark wet brim of some glowing cup 
Fill'd full to the parting sun. 

And moment after moment grows 

In grandeur up from deep to deep 

Of darkness, till the night hath clomb, 
From star to star, heaven's highest dome : 

And, like a new thought born in sleep, 
The slumbrous glory glows, and glows : 
While, far below, a whisper goes 

That heaves the happy sea : 
For o'er faint tracts of fragrance wide, 
A rapture pouring pp the tide — 
A freshness thro' the heat — a sweet. 
Uncertain sound, like fairy feet — 

The west wind blows my love to me. 



•172 JSKA-SinK IHOi\(jy. 

Lovc-ladi'ii iVoui the lin^htcd west 
Thou t'onu'sl, with thy sonl oppivst 
For joy ol' him: all up tho dim, 

Delicious soa blow fcai'tcssly, 
Warm wiud, (hat art the tcmlorost 
Of all that, l)roalho iVom south or west, 

lUow whispers of hiui up tlu> si^a : 
llpou ujy cheek, ami ou my breast, 
Aud ou the lips whii-h he hath prest, 

.Blow all his kisses back to uve ! 

Far oir, the tlark ijreeu locks about, 

All niiiht shiues, I'aiut aud l;iir, the tar light : 
Far olV, the loue, latt^ lishers shout 

Frou\ boat to boat i' the listeniuo- starlight : 
Far oil', aud fair, the sea lies bare, 

Leagues, leagues beyoud the reaeh of rowing 
Up creek aud horn the siuooth wave swells 

And falls asleep ; or, inland flowing, 
Twinkles among the silver shells, 
From sluice to sluice of shallow wells ; 

Or, ilown <lark pools of puri)le glowing, 
Sets some forlorn star trembling there 

In his own din>, dri'nu\lik(> brilliancy. 
And I feel the dark sails gri>wiug 

Nearer, clearer, u[» the sea: 

And I catch the warm west bh)wing 

All n\y own love's sighs to nu^ : 
On the deck Ihear them singing 

Soug>^ they sing in my own laud : 
Jiights are swinging: liells are ringing: 

On the divk 1 see hin\ stand 1 



The day is down into his bower: 
In languid lights his I'oet he steeps : 



TIIK SIJMMKIt-riMK TIIy\T WAS. 473 

'VUr. (litslit sky darlvctis, low hikI lowi-i-, 
And (;l()Hi!S on (Ik; ^^lowin;^ deeps. 

In crcepin;:,- curves of yellow foam 
U|) shallow sands the wat(!i\s slide: 

And warmly blow wlial, wliis|)(!is roam 
From isle to isle the- lulliid tide : 

']'h(^ boats arc drawn : tlio nefs drip brij^ht : 
Dark easiunents j^leani : old songs are. snn<j : 

An<l out upon the verge of night 

(j!r(U'n lights from lonely rocks arc hung. 

() winds of (!ve that sonu^where I'ovc 
Wiiere <lark(;st Kle<;ps the distant s(!a, 

lS(H'.k out wJKM-e haj)ly di-eanis my love, 
And whisp«M- all her dreams to me ! 



THE SnMMKR-riMl': THAT WAS. 

Tmi<; swallow is not conui yet; 

The river baid\s are brown ; 
The wood-side walks are dumb ycit, 

And dreary is the town. 
I miss a fiiee Irom tlu; window, 

A fbolst(;p IVom th(! grass ; 
I miss th(! boyhood of njy heart, 

And the sunnn(!r-liine (hat was. 

lIoW shall I read tin; books I read. 

Or mecrt (he men I uwt V 
r thought to find her rose-tre(! dead, 

lint it is growing y(!t. 
AtkI the rivt*r winds among the Hags, 

And tin; leaf li(!S on the grass. 
But I walk alone. My hones aro gone, 

And the sumnier-time llrat was. 



•171 KI.AYNK l.K ni.ANC. 



Kl.AYXK LK r>l.A\r. 

O TMAr 8\voot soasiui i>u tho April-voi'jio 
Ot'wvMuanluHHlI Whon smllosaro touoht with toars, 
A»\(l all tho unsolaooil smimflM" sooius tt) uriovo 
N\'ith somo Mind want : whon Kilon-oxilot! tool 
Tlioir Taivulisal naron(a<io, and soaroli 
I'von vot sonu> tVau;raj\oo thri>" tho thorny yoars 
Y^vom roaohloss <:anlons iiuanlod In- tho sword. 

Thon ihoso that brood ahovo tho t'allon ^iu^, 
Ov loan tVoiu lonoly oasonionls to tho moon, 
Tnrn round and tuiss tho touohinji' oi' a hatui : 
Thon sad thon<j;lits sooni to bo nioro swoot than 

liay onos : 
Thon old sonji's have a sonnd as pitit'ul 
As dv'ad Irionds" voioos. soniotinios hoai\l in ilroains : 
And all a-tiptoo lor sonio iiivat ovont, 
Tho Prosont waits, hor linuor at hor lips, 
I'ho whilo tho ponsivo Past with niook palo palms, 
Orost t^whoro a ohihl shoidd lio") on hor cold broast. 
And wistt'nl oyos t'orlorn, stanils mntoly by, 
Koproaohinii" I.it'o with son\o nnnttor'd loss; 
Anil tho hoart pinos, a prison'd Oanao, 
Till sonio Ciod comes, and makos tho air all mildon I 

In snoh a mood as this, at snoh an hour 

As makos sad thouiihts tall saddost on tho soul, 

Sho. in hor topmost Howor all alono. 

lliiih-nj> an»on<v tho battlomontod roots, 

Loan'd trom tho lattioo, whoro tho road runs by 

To C\imolot, and in tho bulrush bods 

Tho marish rivor shrinks his stagnant horn. 

All round, alonji' tho spootral arras, gloanul 

(With I'aoos palo ajiainst tho droary liiiht") 

Forms of iiivat Quoons — tho WM^non ot' old timos : 

Sho toll tlioir frowns upon hor, and their smiles. 

And seonfd to hoar their oarmeiits rnstlini>- near. 



KLAYXIC LK I{LA\('. 47 fj 

lli'v lull! lay i<ll'! Ikt lf)V(',-ljf)ol<H aiiioti;,' : 
And, at Iter Ccct, (luii;; by, tlio l)roi(I(;r'(i ncarf, 
Atiil V(!lvc.l niantlc. On the, vcr^c of iii;ilit 
Slu; Haw a bird lloat by, and wisli'd lor ■win;^s : 
8I10 heard tli<! lioarsu \'r<>'/» (jiiarr(;l in the; inarrfli : 
And now and l,li(!n, AvilJi drowsy son<^ and oar, 
Soni(5 dim b;i,r;^(.' Hlidinjf slow from brid^'c to bridge, 
J)own tin; wliiic river past, arid far behind 
J>eft a n(!\v silcMicc!. Then she fell to muse 
Unto what end she eauie into this earth 
Whose reachi(!ss beauty made her heart so sad, 
As one that lov(;s, but hofies not, inly ails 
In ;.'azin<^ on some fiiir unlovin;^ face. 
Anon, there dro[)t down a ^n;at <ni\i' of sky 
A star she knc^w ; and as slu-. look'd at it, 
Down-drawn thro' her intensity of j^aze, 
One an;fry ray fell tatiLH"'*! in her tears, 
Andda^h'd its blintiin^; bri^-htness in lnM-eyes. 
She turn'cJ, and (.-au^^ht her lute, and pensively 
Rippbid a random music down the strings, 
And sang . . . 

All night the moonbeams bathe the sward. 
There's not an (^yc, to-night ii» »loyous-(j|ard 
'I'hat is not dreaming something sweet. I wake 
J^(M;ause it is more sweet to dream awake : 
J^reaming f see thy lace upon the lake. 

I am eonie i\\> IVom far, love, to behold the(;, 
'J'hat hast wailed for me so bravely an(i wcill 
Thy sweet life long (lor the Fairies had told thee 
I am the Knight that shall loosen the si)ell) 
And to-morrf>w moi-n mine arms shall enfold thee : 
And to-m(jrrow night ah, who can tell V 

As the s|)irit of some dark lake 
Tines at nightlall, wild-avvakc;, 
Foi- l,he appi'oaehing consummation 
Of a great moon he divines 



47G - KLAYNK LK ULANO. 

Coiulnii- to hov coronation 
Ol" tlio tla/./.lin;^ stars anil siijnij, 
So niv heart, my heart, 
l)nrkly (^ah. ami trombllnLrly I) 
\N aits in mystic oxpoi'tation 
(From its wiKl sonroo tar aj)art) 
I'ntil it bo tillM uith thee — 
With the t'nll-orl)\l lioht of thee— 
() boKnedas tluni art ! 
With the soft sad smile that Hashes 
I'ntKM-neath thy lonii- dark lashes; 
And thy lloatini;- raven hair. 
From its wi-eaihod pearls let sli[>; 
Anil thy breath, like bahny air; 
And thy warm wet rosy lip, 
With my tirst kiss lingering; there ; 
Its sweet secret unreveard — 
Seal'd by me, to me nnscal'd ; 

And but, ah I she lies asleep 

In yon jiray stone castle-keep, 

0\\ her hds the happy tear ; 

And alone I lin«ier here ; 

And to-morrow morn the fiuht ; 

And .... ah. me ! to-morrow night ? 

Here she brake, tremblinir, otV; and on the Inte, 
Yet vibratinix thn^ its mehHlioiis nerves, 
A great tear plashM and tinklcil. For awhile 
She sat and nuised ; and, heavily, dro|> by drop, 
llcr tears tell ilown ; then thro' them a slow 

smile 
Stole, fnll of April-sweetness ; and she sang — 
— It was a sort of ballad of the sea: 
A song of weather-beaten mariners, 
(i ray-headed men that had snrvived all winds 
Ami held a perilous sport among the waves. 
Who yet sang on with hearts a* boUl as when 
They clear'd their native harbour with a shont. 
And liftcil iioKlon anchoi^s in the sun. 



ELAYNK LE IJLANC. " 477 

Morrily, merrily drove our barks — 
M(!rrily up from the morninfj beach ! 
And the brine broke under the prows in sparks; 
J^'or a spirit sat high at the liehn of each. 
We sail'd all day ; and, when day was done, 
Steer'd after the wake of the sunken sun, 
For we meant to follow him out of reach 
Till tlie gold(Mi dawn was again begun. 

With lift(Hl oars, with shout and song, 

Merry mariners all were we ! 

Iwery heart beat stout and strong. 

'I'hro' all the world you would not sec, 

Tho' you should journey wide and long, 

A comelic^r company. 

And wh(!re, the echoing creeks among, 

Merrily, steadily, 

From bay to bay our barks did fall, 

You might hear us sitiging, one and all, 

A song of the mighty sea. 

15ut, just at twilight, down the rocks 

Dim forms troop'd fast, and clearer grew : 

For out upon the sea-sand came 

The island-people, whom w(! knew, 

And call'd us : — girls with glowing locks ; 

And sunburnt boys that tend the herd 

Far uf) tlie vale ; gray elders too 

With silver beards : — their cries we heard : 

They call'd us, each one by his name. 

" Could ye not wait a little while," 

We heard them sing, " for all our sakes ? 

A little Avhile, in this old isle," 

They sung, " among the silver lakes ? 

For here." they sung, " from horn to horn 

Of (lowery bays the land is fair : 

TUv, hill-side glows with gra})es : the corn 

(Irows golden in the vale down there. 

Our maids are sad for you," -they sung: 



478 ' KI.AYNK I.K Vn.AXO. 

''Against the licUl no sickle iiiUs : 

UjKMi tlio trees onr harps are hung : 

Our doors are void : and in the stalls 

The little foxes nest; anuing 

The herd-roved hills no shei)hei'd ealls : 

Your brethren mourn lor you," they sung. 

" Here wee}> your wives : liere pass'd your lives 

Among the vines, when you were young : 

Here ihvell your sires : your househoUl tires 

Grow eohl. Keturn ! return ! " they sung. 

Tlien each one saw his kinsman stand 
Upon the shore, and wave his hanil : 
Anil each grew sad. But still we sung 
Our oeean-ehorus bold and elear ; 
And still upon our oars Ave hung, 
And held our course with steadtiist ehecr. 

" For we are bound lor distant shores," 

We eried, and taster swej)t our oars : 

" We pine to sec the I'aees there 

Of men whose tleeds we heard long sinee, 

AVho haunt our dreams : gray heroes : kings 

AVhose fame the wandering minstrel sings : 

And maidens, too, vnore fair than ours. 

With deeper eyes, and softer hair. 

Like hers that lel't her island bowers 

To wed the sullen Cornish Trinee 

A\'ho keeps his court upon the hill 

l\v the gray coasts of Tyntagill, 

And each, betbre he dies, must gain 

Some t'airy-lanil across the main." 

But still *' return, belov'd, return ! " 
The simple island-people sung : 
And still each mariner's heart did burn. 
As each his kinsman could discern. 
Those dim green rocks a«noug. 



KI.Ay.SK LE IJLAXC. 4 79 

'• O'er you the; rough sea-blasts will hlow," 
They sung, " while here the skies are fair: 
Our paths arc thro' the fiehls we know : 
And yours you know not where." 

P)Ut we waved our hands ..." farewell ! farewell ! 
We cried . . " our white sails flap the mast : 
Our course is set: our oars ar(5 wet : 
One day " we cried, is " nearly past : 
C)ne day at sea ! Farewell ! farewell ! 
No more with you wc now may dwell !" 

And the next day wc were driving free 
(With never a sail in sight) 
Over the face of the mighty sea : 
And we counted the stars next night 
Rise over us by two and three 
With melancholy light : 
A grave-eyed, earnest company — 
And all round the salt foam white ! 

With this, she ceased, and sigli'd . . " tho' I were far, 

I know yon moated iris would not shed 

His f)urple crown : yon clover-field would ripple 

As merry in the waving wind as now : 

As soft the Spring down this bare hill would steal, 

And in the vale below tling all her flowers: 

Each year the wet primroses star the woods : 

And violets muflle the sharp rivulets : 

Ikound this lone casement's solitary panes 

The wandering ivy move and mount each year : 

Each year the red wheat gleam near river-banks : 

While, ah, with each my memory from the hearts 

Of men would fade, and from their lips my name. 

O which were best — the wide, the windy sea, 

With golden gleams of undiscover'd lands. 

Odours, and murmurs — or the placid Tort, 

From wanton winds, from scornful waves secure, 

Under the old, green, happy hiUs of home ?" 



■4Sv^ » I VVNK IK 151 ANO. 

Sho s;U tl»rlori\. ami {>oiuKm'\1. Niuht was noar, 
Aiul. u\a>*slK\lliuii oVr tlto hills hov ilowv oaiups, 
Cauvo ilowu tho outposts of tho sontiuol stars. 
All in tho owlot light sho siU torlovn. 

Now luKstlo. hall, and gianiiv. that ovo woi\> 

oranmiM : 
Tho town boinii ohokod to Inirstin^- ot" tho oatos : 
V'or thoiv tho Kinii yot lav with all his Karls, 
Ami tho Konnvl Tablo, uuniboriuii all s.ivo one. 

On many a ourvinii" torraoo whioh o'orhung 
Tho long grav ri\or, swan-llko, tln-vV tho liioon 
0( quaintost vows, movod. inuMng statoly bv, 
Tho lovolv I'ulios of King Arthur's I'onrt, 
Sighing, slio oyod thorn ti-v>m that lonoly koep. 
Tho nVag\Mi-lKU\novs o'or tho turrots ilivop'il, 
Tho hoavy twilight hangiitg in thoir tolds. 
Ai\il now ami thon. tWnu postorns in tho wall 
rho Knights stolo, lingoring tor somo last Cuhh]- 

night, 
Whispor'tl or sighM th»\>' oUxsing lattioes; 
(h* pausovl with rovoivnoo ot' boi\ding plumes, 
And lips on JowollM tingors gayly prost. 
rho silvor oivssots shono t"i\nn pano to pano : 
And tapoi-s tlittod by with tlitiing t'orms : 
riat\g\l tho dark stroots with olash of ii\M\ hools; 
C>r toll a sound of ooits in olattoring oonrts, 
And ihvwsy horst^boys singing in the straw, 

rhoso noisos lloatod upwanl. Anil within. 
From tho givat Hall, torovor anil anon. 
r>!ako gusts o( rovol ; snatohos of wild song; 
And laughtor ; whoro, hor siro among his mou 
Tannisoil botwoon tho twilight and tho dark, 
riio silonoo i\>u»ul about hor whoro sho sat. 
N'oxt in itsolf. grow sad^lor tor tho sound. 
Sho oUvsoil hor oyos: bot'oiv thom sooniM to tUut 
A djvam of lightod mvels — ilanoo auil song 



KLAYNK LE IJLANC. -181 

in (incnvar'H palace: gorj/(?ous lournanicnts ; 

And rows of glitterirjj^ ayttH about tlic Queen, 

(Like htars in galaxies around llje moon) 

That sparkled reeo;/nition down below, 

Where rode the Knights amort witli lance and 

plume ; 
And each his lady's sleeve upon his helm : 
Murmuring ..." none ride fV)r me. Am I not fair, 
Whom men call the White Flower of Ajtolat V " 

Far, far without, the wiM gray marish spread, 

A heron startled from the pools, and flapp'd 

The waUir from his wings, and skirr'd away. 

The last long limit of the dying light 

Dropp'd, all on fire, behind an iron cloud : 

And, here and there, thro' some wild chasm of blue, 

Tumbled a star. The mist upon the fens 

Thicken'd. A billowy ojjal grew i' the crofts, 

Fed on the land, and suck'd into itself 

J^aling and park, close copse and bushless down, 

Changing the world for Fairies. 

Then the moon 
in the low east, unprison'd from black bars 
Of stagnant fog (a white light, wrought to the full, 
Sumrn'd in a perfect orb) rose suddenly up 
U[>fm the silence with a great surprise, 
And took the inert landscape unawares. 

Wliite, white, the snaky river: dark the banks : 

And dark the folding distance, where her eyes 

W(jre wildly turn'd, as tho' the whole world lay 

In that far blackness over Carlyel. 

There she espied Sir Launcelot, as he ro^le 

His coal-black courser downward from afar. 

For all his armour glitter'd as he went. 

And show'd like silver : and fiis mighty shield, 

liy dint of knightly combat hackt and worn, 

r>ook'd like some crackt and frozen moon tliat hangs 

I'jy night o'er lialtic headlands -all alone. 



•IS'J Ol KKN iUKNKVKKK. 



ro 



As. in lono tairv-luuls, in> st>nH> r'u'h sl»olt' 
Of iix>KUM\ siinvi tho wlKl wavo n\iv\nius»lv 
Hoaps its uiwahiod soa-wo.Uth. wooil {u\il gvm, 
riuni oivops K\ok slow iiito tho jjcvU sjuI sea: 
So t\\^n» u\v lit"o\s now soau'luni iloops to thoo. 
l>olo\\i, I I'ast thoso wotHl-tlowoi's. Siullo on them. 
Mojv than thov wioan I know not to oxpiw^. 
So I shrink ba^k inti> n\v oKl sail soil'. 
Far t\\>u\ all wonls N\horo lovo lios t"athiMnK\<5«. 



C,n KKN lUKNKVKKK. 

'ruKNOK. \jp tiio soa-uivo«i th>oi\ atnong- iho stoms 
0( miuhtv columns wluvso unnioasuivil shailes 
Ki\^m aislo to aislo, unhoovlovl in tho sun, 
MoYod >Yithout sound. I, t'ollowiuii all alono 
A strauiio ilosiiv that vlivw mo liko a hand, 
Camo unawaivs upon tho Quoon. 

Sho Silt 
In a giTat silonoo. >Yhioh hor boautv tillM 
Full to tho hoart i^t" it. ot» a blaok chair 
M.>il\l all about with suUon iioms. ami ornsts 
0( sultrv bla/otirv. llor taoo was KuvVi, 
A panso ot' sUnnbjxnis K^auty. oVr tho liuht 
Ot' somo dolioious thought now-rison abovo 

Tho vU^^ps ol* }v»ssiou. Konnd hor stattUy hoad 
A sitiglo oitvlot ol* tho ivil ii~v>ld tino 
Biiru'd I'tvo, tivm which, on cither siilo stivauui 

down 
Twiliiihts ot* hor sott hair, t'i\>n\ nock to t*iK>t. 
liivon was hor kirtlo as tho onuM\>Klo is. 

And stitVt*ivn» hom to horn with scams at* stones 
l>cvond all value; which. fi\>m lci\ to rijiht 



lUK SKdl.l.r/H'.l) UIAJIT. 4H'.i 

\)\H\)ii.ti'ifti/, lialC rc,v<:;il'(J th(; hfio wy j/l<;arn 
Of ;i vvliiU; roix; of «poll<;HH Hainyf<; piir<;. 
Aii'l from lh(j wift rcpr'-Ht-ion of lutr zofn;, 
VVIii<;li lik<; a li;.'lif, liatj'J on a luU-Hlrin^/ pn^wnM 
HariMony from ilH tourrli. flovvM warmly l>ack 
'IIkj horjoWtf^iiM oullirniM of a ^'lowiriff jrra^;c, 
Nor y<;l oul(lr>w'<J «w<j<;t lawM of lovdincHH. 

'1 li<;n (I'ui I fii<;l aH one who, inu<;li pr^rfjloxt, 
/><;<J \)y Mlrafi^'*; l<fjir<;n'ls aii'l tlic li;rlit, of «tarM 
Ov<;r ion;.' rcf/iorih of flu: nii«Jni;.'|jL hafid 
Jicyr>n'i th<; rcfj trar:t of tlic J'yramidH, 
]m KurJ<J<;nly drawn to look upon tint hky 
From Kf'jiM; of unfamiliar lj;/li(,, arnl «<;<;«, 
li<',v<5al'(i aj^ainHt tlic <;onHt<;llatr;<i oopc 
'I'Ik; pii'cat r;roHH of th(; Soulli. 

'i'lio oliatnlx;r round 
WaH (Jropt with arrax ^ntcu ; and I f-ould hear, 
Jn <;ourl.M far oiV, a min«tr<;l praiwinp^ '^I^y, 
Who narij^ . . . .S'« t/oucn, si douce fmt ia MarrjartcU ! 
To a faifiL Iul<;. l>pon th<; window-hill, 
Hard hy a lalonn bowl Ihaf, hlaz<;d i' l.|j<; Hun 
r<',r<;h'd a htran;."; fowl, a l'"ah'on l'<;n</rinc; 
With all hi.H f<!alhr',rH puft for f)rid<;, and all 
Jfis I'.omA'^c. ^'litti'rin*.' outward in hiw eye; 
For he, had (lown from far, athwart nirnw^a landw, 
And o'er lh<; li;iht of many a Hettin;^ n\m, 
Lur<;d by liih lovr; (tsu<;h w>ver(!i;;nty of old 
Had lieauly In all eoaHtn of ChrJKtendom !) 
'J'o look into the ^reat aynH of th(; ilni^i.ix. 



THE NEGLKCTKO J J i. A JIT. 

TiiiH heart, you would not have, 
I laid up in a ^'rav<; 
Of Kon;^: with love en wound it; 
And wet Hweet fancicH blowing round it, 



484 THE NEGLECTED HEART. 

Then I to others gave it ; 
Because you would not have it. 
'■' See you keep it well," I said ; 
" This heart's sleeping — is not dead ; 
But will wake some future day : 
See you keep it while you may." 

All great Sorrows in the world, — 
Some Avith crowns upon their heads. 
And in regal purple furl'd : 
Some with rosaries and beads ; 
Some with lips of scorning, curl'd 
At false Fortune ; some, in weeds 
Of mourning and of widowhood, 
Standing tearful and apart — 
Each one in his several mood, 
Came to take my heart. 

Then in holy ground they set it : 
With melodious weepings wet it: 
And revered it as they found it, 
AVith wild fancies blowing round it. 

And this heart (you would not have) 
Being not dead, tho' in the grave, 
Work'd miracles and marvels strange, 
xVud heal'd many maladies : 
Giving sight to seal'd-up eyes. 
And legs to lame men sick for change. 

The fame of it grew great and greater. 
Then said you '• Ah. Avhat's the matter ? 
How hath this heart, I would not take. 
This weak heart, a child might break — 
This poor, foolish heart of his — 
Since won worship such as this ? *' 

You bethought you then . . . *' Ah me 
What if this heart, I did not choose 



APPEARAKCES. 485 

To retain, hath found the key 
Of" the kingdom ? and I lose 
A great power ? Me he gave it : 
Mine the right, and I will have it." 

Ah, too late ! For crowds exclaim'd 
" Ours it is : and hath been claim'd. 
Moreover, where it lies, the spot 
Is holy ground : so enter not. 
None but men of mournful mind — 
Men to darken'd days resign'd ; 
Equal scorn of Saint and Devil ; 
Poor and outcast ; halt and blind ; 
Exiles from Life's golden revel ; 
Gnawing at the bitter rind 
Of old griefs ; or else, confined 
In proud cares, to serve and grind, — 
May enter : whom this heart shall cure. 
But go thou by : thou art not poor : 
Nor defrauded of thy lot : 
Bless thyself: but enter not ! " 



APPEARANCES. 

Well, you have learn'd to smile. 
And no one looks for traces 
Of tears about your eyes. 
Your face is like most faces. 
And who will ask, meanwhile, 
If your face your heart belies ? 

Are you happy ? You look so. 
Well, I wish you what you seem. 
Happy persons sleep so light ! 
In your sleep you never dream ? 
But who would care to know 
What dreams you dream'd last night ? 



48G KKTKOSrKOTlOXS. 



now TIIK SON(^, WAS MADE. 

1 SAT low down, at miilniiiht. in a valo 
Mystorlous with tlio silence of bine pines : 

Wlnte-elovi-n by a snaky river-tail, 

VneoilM from tanjiled wefts of silver twines. 

Out of a ernniblin^- eastle. on a spike 

Of splinter'd roek, a mile of ehangeless shade 

(lOrjzed half the landscape. Down a ilismal dyke 
Of black hills the slniced moonbeams stream'd, 
and staid. 

The world lay like a poet in a swoon. 

When (lOil is on him. tillM with heaven all thro' — 
A dim face fnll of dreams tnrn'd to the moon. 

With milil lips moist in melancholy dew. 

T ]ilnck'd bine mnLI•^vort, livid mandrakes, balls 
C)f blossonfd nightshade, heatls of hemlock, long 

White urasses, grown in oozy intervals 

(.)f marsh, to make ingredients tor a song: 

A song of monrning to embalm the Past — 

The corpse-cold Past — that it shonld not decay; 

lint in dark vaidts of memory, to the last. 
Endure unchanged: for in some future day 

1 will bring m} new love to look at it 

(Laying aside her gay robes tor a moment) 

That, seeing what love came to, she may sit 

Silent awhile, and muse, but make no comment. 



RETUOSrECriONS. 

To-Nnmr she will dance at the Palace, 
With the diamonds in her hair : 



THY VOICE ACIIOSS MY SPIRIT FALLS. 487 

And tlio Prince will praiso her beauty — 
U'hc loveliest lady there ! 

But tones, at times, in the music 

Will brin^^ back for^^'otten thin;^3 : 
vVnd her heart will fail h(;r sometimes, 

When her beauty is praised at the King's. 

There sits in his silent eliamber 

A stern and sorrowful man : 
]>iit a strange sweet dream comes to him, 

While the lamp is burning wan, 

Of a sunset among the vineyards 

In a lone and lovely land. 
And a maiden standing near him, 

With fresh wild-flowers in her hand. 



THY VOICE ACIIOSS MY SPIRIT FALLS. 

Tmy voice across my spirit falls 

Like some spent sea-wind thro' dim halls 

Of ocean-kings, left bare and wide 

((ireeri floors o'er which the sea-weed crawls !) 

Where once, long since, in festal pride 

Some Chief, who roved and ruled the tide, 

Amon^ his brethren reign'd and died. 

I dare not meet tliine eyes ; for so, 
In gazing there, I sec^m once more 
To lapse away thro' days of yore 
To homes where laugh and song is o'er, 
Whose inmates each went long ago — 

Like some lost sotil, that keeps the semblance 
On its brow of ancient grace 
Not all faded, wandering back 



488 A visu^x OF viuaiNs. 

To slloiit I'hninbors, iti (lio track 
Of tlio. tAvilioht, iVoiu the Plat'O 
Of rolrlbutlvo luMuoiubraiico. 
Ah, turn aside thoso ovos ajiain ! 
Thoir liijlit lias loss of jov than pain. 
Wo aro not now what wo woro thou. 



THE RUINF.D PALACE. 

BisoKKN aro Iho I'aiax'O windows: 

Kotlinp; is tho Palaoo floor. 
Tho damp wind lifts tho arras. 

Anil swings tho oroakinj:; door ; 
l>nt it only startlos tho whito owl 

From his juM-oh on a nionaroh's throne, 
And tho rat that was onawino- tho harpstrings 

A Qnoon onoo jilay'd upon. 

l\iro you lingor horo at niidniiiht 

Alouo, whon tho wind is about. 
And tho bat, and tho nowt, and tho viper, 

And tho oroeping tliinas oomo out ? 
Beware of these ghostly ohanibers ! 

Soaroh not what my heart hath been, 
Lest you find a phantom sitting 

Where onoo there sat a (^ueon. 



A VISION OF VIRGINS. 

I ii.\i> a vision of tho night. 

It soemM 
There Avas a long red traot of barren land, 
I>U>ekt in by blaok hills, Avhere a half-moon dream'd 
Of morn, and whiten'd. 

Drifts of drv brown sand, 



A VISION OF VIIIOIXS. 4H'J 

Tills way and tliaf, woro licapt IhsIow : and Mats 
Of water :—j(lann^' sJiallows. wlicn; Hlran^^o bats 
Canne and went, and moths lliek(!r'd. 

To tlie rlo;h<, 
A dusty road that crept alon^f; the wastr; 
Ivike a \vhit(! snake; : and, further nj), I traced 
The shachnv of a ^reat house, far In sij^lit : 
A Iiiiiidred cas(unents all ablaze with li^^ht: 
And forms that fht atliwart them as in hast(; : 
And a slow music, such as sometimes kings 
Command at mighty revels, softly sent 
From viol, and flute, and tabor, and tlic strings 
Of many a HW(!et and slumbrous instiiimeiit 
That wound into tlie mute heart of the night 
Out of that dist,anee. 

Then I could perceive 
A glory pouring thro' an open door, 
And in tlu; light five wonum. I l)elievo 
They wore white vestments, all of them. They 

were 
Quite calm ; and eatdi still face unearthly fair, 
Unearthly cpiiet. So lik(^ statu(!S all. 
Waiting t,hey stood wit.hout that lighted hall ; 
And in their hands, like a blue star, they held 
Each one a silver lamp. 

^J'hen T beheld 
A shadow in the doorway. And One came 
Crown'd for a feast. T could not see the Face. 
The Form was not all human. As tbe flame 
Stream'd over it, a presence took the place 
With awe. 

He, turning, took them by the hand, 
And led th<!m (iaeh up the white stairway, and 
'J'he door closed. 

At that moment the moon dipp'd 
Behind a rag of pur[)l(; vaf)Our, ript 
Off a great cloud, some dead wind, ere it spent 
Its last breath, had blown open, and so rent 



490 A A'lsiox OF vira-Jixs. 

You saw belilnd blue pools of llglit, and there 
A wild star swimming- in the lurid air. 
The dream was darken'd- And a sense of loss 
Fell like a nightmare on the land : because 
The moon yet linger'd in her cloud-eclipse. 

Then, in the dark, swelTd sullenly across 
The waste a wail of women. 

Ilcr blue lips 
The moon drew up out of the cloud. 

Again 
I had a vision on that midnight plain. 

Five women : and the beauty of despair 
Upon their iaces : locks of wild wet hair, 
Clammy with anguish, wanderM low and loose 
O'er their bare breasts, that seem'd too iill'd with 

trouble 
To feel the damp crawl of the midnight dews 
That trickled down them. One was bent "half- 
double, 
A dismay'd heap, that hung o'er the last spark 
Of a lamp slowly dying. As she blew 
The dull light redder, and the dry wick tlew 
In crumbling sparkles all about the dark, 
I saw a light of horror in her eyes ; 
A wild light on her llusht cheek ; a wild white 
On her dry lips; an agony of surprise 
Fearfully tair. 

The lamp dropp'd. From my sight 
She fell into the dark. 

Beside her, sat 
One without motion : and her stern face flat 
Against the dark sky. 

One, as still as death, 
Ilollow'd her hands about her lani]), lor fear 
Some motion of the midnight, or her breath, 
Should fan out the last flicker. Kosy-clear 
The light oozed, thro' her fingers, o'er her lace. 
There was a ruiu'd beauty hovering there 



A VISION OF VIRGINS. 491 

Over deep pain, and, daslit with lurid grace 
A waning bloom. 

The light grew dim and blear : 
And she, too, slowly darken'd in her place. 

Another, with her white hands hotly lockt 
About her damp knees, muttering madness, rock'd 
Forward, and backward. But at last she stopp'd, 
And her dark head upon her bosom dropp'd 
Motionless. 

Then one rose up with a cry 
To the great moon ; and stretch'd a wrathful arm 
Of wild expostulation to the sky. 
Murmuring — " These earth-lamps fail us ! and what 

harm ? 
Does not the moon shine ? Let us rise and haste 
To meet the Bridegroom yonder o'er the waste ! 
For now I seem to catch once more the tone 
Of viols on the night. 'Twere better done, 
At worst, to perish near the golden gate, 
And fall in sight of glory one by one, 
Than here all night upon the wild, to wait 
Uncertain ills. Away ! the hour is late ! " 

Again the moon dipp'd. 

I could see no more. 
Not the least gleam of light did heaven afford. 

At last, I heard a knocking on a door, 
And some one crying " Open to us. Lord ! " 
There was an awful pause. 

I heard my heart 
Beat. 

Then a Voice — " 1 know you not. Depart." 
I caught, within, a glimpse of glory. And 
The door closed. 

Still in darkness dream'd the land. 
I could not see those women. Not a breath ! 
Darkness, and awe : a darkness more than deafh. 
The darkness took them. ***** 



492 LKOLINE. 



LEOLINE. 



In tlie moltcn-golclen moonlight. 

In the deep grass warm and dry, 
We watch'd the fire-fly rise and swim 

In floating sparkles by. 
All night the hearts of nightingales, 

Song-steeping, slumbrous leaves, 
Flow'd to us in the shadow there 

Below the cottage- eaves. 

We sang our songs together 

Till the stars shook in the skies. 
We spoke — we spoke of common things, 

Yet the tears were in our eyes. 
And my hand — I know it trembled 

To each light warm touch of thine. 
But we were friends, and only friends, 

My sweet friend, Leoline ! 

HoAv large the white moon look'd, Dear ! 

There has not ever been 
Since those old nights the same great light 

In the moons which I have seen. 
I often wonder, when I think, 

If you have thought so too. 
And the moonlight has grown dimmer. Dear, 

Thau it used to be to you. 

And sometimes, when the warm west wind 

Comes faint across the sea, 
It seems that you have breath'd on it, 

So SAveet it comes to me : 
And sometimes, when the long light wanes 

In one deep crimson line, 
I muse, " and does she watch it too, 

Far off, sweet Leoline '? " 



LEOLINE. 493 

And often, leaning all day long 

My head upon my hands, 
My heart aches for the vanisht time 

In the far fair foreign lands : 
Thinking sadly — " Is she happy ? 

Has she tears for those old hours ? 
And the cottage in the starlight ? 

And the songs among the Howers ? " 

One night we sat below the porch, 

And out in that warm air, 
A fire-fly, like a dying star, 

Fell tangled in her hair ; 
But I kiss'd him lightly off again. 

And he glitter'd up the vine, 
And died into the darkness 

For the love of Leoline ! 

Between two songs of Petrarch 

I've a purple rose-leaf prest, 
More sweet than common rose-leaves. 

For it once lay in her breast. 
When she gave me that her eyes were wet : 

The rose was full of dew. 
The rose is wither'd long ago : 
The page is blister'd too. 

There's a blue flower in my garden. 

The bee loves more than all : 
The bee and I, we love it both, 

Tho' it is frail and small. 
She loved it too — long, long ago ! 

Her love was less than mine. 
Still we are friends, but only friends, 

My lost love, Leoline ! 



494 sriiiNi; and wintki 



SPRING AND WINTER. 

TiiK world buds every year: 

But the heart just once, aud when 

The blossoui tails olV sere 

No new blossom ronies again. 

Ah, the rose goes with the wind : 

But the thorns remain beiiind. 

AVas it well in him, if he 

Felt not love, to speak of love so ? 
If he still uiunoved n\ust be. 

Was it nobly stnight to move so ? 
— Pluek the llower, and yet not wear it- 
Spurn, despise it, yet not spare it ? 

Need he say that 1 was fair, 
With such meaning in his tone, 

Just to speak of one whose hair 
Ilail the same tinge as my own '? 

Phu'k my life up, root and bloom, 

«Just to plant it on hvv tomb? 

And she'd searee so fair a faee 
(So he used to say )^ as mine : 

And her form had far less graee : 
And her brow was far less tine : 

Rut 'twas just that he loved then 

More than lie ean love again. 

Why, if Beauty eould not bind him, 
Need he prai^e me, speaking low : 

Use my faee just to ren\ind him 

How no faee eould please him now ? 

Why, if loving eould not move him, 

Did he teaeli me still to love him ? 

And he saitl my eyes were bright, 
But his own, ho said, were dim ; 



SPUING AND WINTER. 495 

And my hand, lie said, was white, 

15ut what was that to liiin V 
" For," h(5 said, " in gazinjL? at you, 
I seem gazing at a statue." 

" Yes ! " he said, '" he had grown wise now : 

He had suiler'd much of yore : 
But a fair face to his eyes now, 

Was a fair face, and no more. 
Yet the anguish and the bliss, 
And the dream too, had been his." 

Then, wliy talk of "lost romances" 

Being " sick of sentiment ! " 
And wliat meant those tones and glances 

li' real love was never meant V 
Why, if his own youth were wither'd. 
Must mine also have been gather'd V 

Why those words a thought too tender 

For the conuTion-{)laces spoken V 
Looks whose m(;aning seem'd to render 

Help to words when speech came broken ? 
Why so late in July moonlight 
Just to say what's said by noonlight ? 

And why praise my youth for gladness 

Kee])ing something in his smile 
Which turn'd all my youth to sadness, 

He still smiling all the while ? 
Since, when so my youth was over 
He said — " Seek some younger lover ! " 

" For the world buds once a year 
But the heart just once," he said. 

True ! ... so now that Spring is here 
All my flowers, like his, are dead. 

And the rose drops in the wind. 

But the thorns remain behind. 



|;M AN IXA/i 



KING IIERMANDIAZ. 

TiiKN, staiuHnji by tho shore, T saw the moon 
Chaiiiio hiu\ ami thvincUo in the west, as when 
Warm looks lade inward out of dying eyes, 
And the dini sea began to nu>an. 

1 knew 
INly hour had »'on\e, and to the bark I went. 
Still were the stately deeks, and hung with silk 
Of stoled erinison : at the masthead burn'd 
A steadt'ast tire with inllnenee like a star, 
And underneath a eoueh of gold. 1 loosed 
The dri[)ping ehain. There was not any wind : 
Hut all at onee the magie sails began 
To belly and hea\e, and like a bat that wakes 
And tlits by night, l)eneath her swarthy wings 
The blaek shij) roek'd, ami moved. I heard anon 
A hunnning in the eonlage and a sound 
Like bees in sirmmer, and the bark went on, 
Atul on, and on, until at last the worhl 
Was roU'd away and I'olded out of sight. 
And I was all alone on tlie great sea. 
'I'here a tleep awe fell on my spirit. My wound 
Began to bite. 1, ga/ing round, beheld 
A Lady sitting silent at the helm, 
A woman white as death, and fair as dreams. 
1 would have asked her *' Whither do we sail ? " 
Ami " how ? " but that my fear elung at my heart, 
And held me still. She, answering my doubt, 
Said slowly, '• To the Isle of Avalon." 

Ami straightway we were nigh a strand all gold, 

That glittered in the nuion between the dusk 

()f han*>in'v bowers made rieh with blooms and 

balms. 
From whirh faint gusts eame to me ; and 1 heard 
A sound of lutes among the vales, and songs 
And Yoiees faint like voiees thro' a dream 
That siiid or seem'd to say, " Hail Uermandiaz ! " 



SONG. 497 



SONG. 



In llio warm, bla(;k mill-pool winking, 
The first (ImiI^UuI star sliincis blue : 

And alone here 1 lie lliinkin<( 
O such lia[)[)y thoughts of you 1 

Up tlic porch the roses clamber, 

And the Uowers we sowM last June ; 

And the casement of your (diamber 
Shines between them to the moon. 

Look out, love ! flinir wide the lattice: 
Wind the red rose in your hair, 

And the little white clematis 

Which 1 pluck'd for you to wear : 

Or come down, and let me Iiear you 
Singing in the scented grass. 

Thro' tall cowsli[)S nodding near you, 
Just to touch you as you pass. 

For, where you pass, the air 

With warm hints of love grows wise: 
You — the dew on your dim hair. 

And the smile in your soft eyes ! 

From the hayfield comes your brother; 

There, your sisters stand together, 
Singing clear to one another 

Tliro' the dark blue summer weather ; 

And the maid the latch is- clinking. 

As she lets her lover thro' : 
But alone, love, 1 lie thinking 

O such tender thoughts of you ! 



32 



498 THE SWALLOW. — CONTRABAND. 



THE SWALLOW. 

SWALLOW chirping in the sparkling eaves, 
AVhy hast thou left lar south tliy fairy homes, 

To buikl between tliese drenched April-leaves, 
And sing me songs ol" Spring before it comes ? 

Too soon thou singest ! Yon black stubborn thorn 
Bursts not a bud : the sneaping -wind drit'ts on. 

She that once thing thee crumbs, and in the morn 
Sang from the lattice Avhere thou sing'st, is gone. 

Here is no Spring. Thy Jlight yet further follow. 

Fly ott', vain ^wallow ! 

Thou com'st to mock me with remember'd things. 

1 love thee not, O bird for me too gay. 
That which I want thou hast — the gift of wings : 

Grief — -which I have — thou hast not. Fly away ! 
What hath my roof for thee ? my cold dark roof, 

Beneath whose weei)inii' thatch thine eu<rs will 
treeze ! 
Summer will halt not here, so keep aloof. 

Others are gone ; go thou. In those wet trees 

1 see no Spring tho' thou still singest of it. 
Fare hence, false pi-ophet ! 



CONTRABAND. 

A HEAP of low, dark, rocky coast, 

Where the blue-black sea sleeps smooth and even ; 
Aud the sun, just over the reefs at most, 

In the amber part of a [)ale blue heaven : 

A village asleep below the pines, 

Hid up the gray shore from the low slow sun : 
And a maiilen that lingers among the vines. 

With her feet in the dews, and her locks undone : 



EVENING. 499 

The half-moon melting out of the sky ; 

And, just to be seen still, a star here, a star there, 
Faint, high up in the heart of the heaven ; so high 

And so faint, you can scarcely be sure that they 
are there. 

And one of that small, black, raking craft ; 

Two swivel guns on a round deck handy ; 
And a great siooj) sail with the wind abaft ; 

And four brown thieves round a cask of brandy. 

That's my life, as I left it last. 

And what it may be henceforth I know not. 
But all that I keep of the merry Past, 

Are trifles like these, which I care to show not : — 

A leathern flask, and a necklace of pearl ; 

These rusty pistols, this tatter'd chart, Friend : 
And the soft dark half of a raven curl ; 

And, at evening, the thought of a true, true heart. 
Friend. 



EVENING. 

Already evening ! In the duskiest nook 
Of yon dusk corner, under the Death's-head, 
Between the alembecs, thrust this legended, 

And iron-bound, and melancholy book, 

For I will read no longer. The loud brook 

Shelves his sharp light up shallow banks thin- 
spread ; 
The slumbrous west grows slowlj' red, and red : 

Up from the ripen'd corn her silver hook 
The moon is lifting : and deliciously 

Along the warm blue hills the day declines : 
The first star brishtens while she waits for me. 



500 ADON. 

And round licr swelling heart the zone grows 

tight : 
Musing, half-sad, in her soft hair she twines 

The white rose, whispering " he will come to- 

nidit ! " 



ADON. 

I WILL not weep for Adon ! 
I will not waste my breath to draw thick sighs 
For spring's dead greenness. All the orient skies 
Are husht, and breatliing out a bright surprise 
Round morning's marshalling star : Rise, Eos, rise ! 

Day's dazzling spears are up : the faint stars fade 
on 

The white hills — cold, like Adon! 

O'er crag, and spar, and splinter 
Break down, and roll the amber mist, stern light ! 
The black pines dream of dawn. The skirts of 

night 
Are ravell'd in the East. And planted bright 
In heaven, the roots of ice shine, sharp and white, 

In frozen ray, and spar, and spike, and splinter. 

Within me, and without, all's winter. 

Why should I weep for Adon ? 
Am I because the sweet Past is no more, 
Dead, as the leaves upon the graves of yore? 
I will breathe boldly, tho' the air be frore 
With freezing fire. Life still beats at the core 

Of the world's heart, tho' Death his awe hath 
laid on 

This dumb white corpse of Adon. 



THE PROPHET. WEALTH. WANT. 501 



THE PROPHET. 

When the East lightens with strancre hints of morn, 
The first tinge of the growing glory takes 
The cold crown of some hut^ht high alp forlorn, 
While yet o'er vales below the dark is spread. 
Even so the dawning Age, in silence, breaks, 
O solitary soul, on thy still head : 
And we, that watch below with reverent fear, 
Seeing thee crown'd, do know that day is near. 



WEALTH. 

Was it not enough to dream the day to death 
Grandly ? and finely feed on faint perfumes ? 

Between the heavy lilacs draw thick breath, 

While the noon humm'd from glowing citron- 
glooms '? 

Or walk with Morning in these dewy bowers, 
'Mid sheaved lilies, and the moth-loved lips 

Of purple asters, bearded flat sunflowers, 

And milkwhite crumpled pinks with blood i' the 
tips ? 

But I must also, gazing upon thee, 

Pine with delicious pain, and subtle smart, 

Till I felt heavy immortality. 

Laden with looks of thine, weigh on my heart ! 



WANT. 

You swore you lov'd me all last June : 
And now December's come and gone. 



502 A BIRD AT SUNSKT. 

The Summer went with you — too soon. 
The Winter goes — alone. 

Next Spring the leaves will all be green : 
But love like ours, once turn'd to pain, 

Can be no more what it hath been, 
Tho' roses bloom again. 

Return, return the unvalued wealth 
I gave ! which scarcely profits you — 

The heart's lost youth — the soul's lost health- 
In vain ! . . . false friend, adieu! 

I keep one faded violet 

Of all once ours — you left no more. 
What I have lost I may forget. 

But you cannot restore. 



A BIRD AT SUNSET. 

Wild bird, that wingest wide the glimmering 
moors. 

Whither, by belts of yellowing woods away ? 
What pausing sunset tliv wild heart allures 

Deep into dying day ? 

Would that my heart, on wings like thine, could 
pass 

Where stars their light in rosy regions lose — 
A happy shadow o'er the warm brown grass, 

Fallinfi; with falling dews ! 

Hast thou, like me, some true-love of thine own, 
In fairy lands beyond the utmost seas ; 

Who there, unsolaced, yearns for thee alone. 
And sino's to silent trees ? 



IN TRAVEL. 503 

O tell that woodbird tiia*^ the summer grieves, 
And the suns darken and the days fijrovv cold ; 

And, tell her, love will fade with fading leaves, 
And cease in common mould. 

FI3' from the winter of the world to her ! 

Fly happy bird ! I follow in thy flight, 
Till thou art lost o'er yonder fringe of fir 

In baths of crimson light. 

My love is dying far away from me. 

She sits and saddens in the fading west. 
For her T mourn all day, and pine to be 

At night upon her breast. 



IN TRAVEL. 

Now our white sail flutters down : 

Now it broadly takes the breeze : 

Now the wharves upon the town, 

Lessening, leave us by degrees. 

Blithely blows the morning, shaking 

On your cheek the looson'd curls : 

Round our prow the cleft wave, breaking, 

Tumbles off in hea|)ed pearls. 

Which in forks of foam unite, 

And run seething out to sea. 

Where o'er gleams of briny light, 

Dip the dancing gulls in glee. 

Now the mountain serpentine 

Slips out many a snaky line 

Down the dark blue ocean-spine. 

From the boatside, while we pass, 

I can see, as in a glass. 

Pirates on the flat sea-sand. 

Carousing ere they put from land; 



604 IN TRAVEL. 

And the, ])nri)lo-pointo(l crests 
Of hills Avhi'reoii the morning rests, 
Whose ethereal vivid peaks 
Glinnner in the lueid creeks. 
Now these wind away ; and now 
Hamlets np the monntain-brow 
Peep and [)eer trom roof to roof; 
And gray castle-walls aloof 
O'er wide vineyards jnst in grape, 
From whose serfs old Barons held 
Tax and toll in feudal eld, 
Creep out of the uncoiling (;ape. 
Now the long low layer oi' mist 
A slow trouble rolls and lifts, 
With a broken billowy motion, 
From the rocks and from the rifts ; 
Laying bare, just here and there, 
Black stone-pines, at morn dew-kist 
By salt winds from bound to bound 
Of the great sea freshening round ; 
Wattled folds on bleak brown downs 
Sloping high o'er slecj^y towns ; 
Lengths of shore and breadths of ocean. 

Love, lean here upon my shoulder, 
And look yonder, love, with me : 
Now I think that I can see 
In the merry market-]>laces 
Sudden warmths of sunny faces : 
Many a lovely laughing maiden 
Bearing on her loose dark locks 
Bich fruit-baskets heavy-laden, 
In and out among the rocks. 
Knowing not that we behold her. 
Now, love, tell me can you hear, 
Growing nearer, and more near, 
Sound of song, and plash of oar, 
From wild bays, and inlets hoar, 
While above yon isles atar 
Ghostlike sinks last night's last star ? 



CFIANGKS. 505 



CHANGES. 



Wtiom first wo love, you know, we seldom wed. 

Time rules us all. And Life, indeed, is not 
The tliinjij we [)lanned it out ere hope was dead. 

And then, we women cannot choose our lot. 

Much must be borne which it is hard to bear: 
Much given away which it w(!re sweet to keep. 

God help us all ! who need, indexed His care. 
And yet, I know, tlx; ShcplKu-d loves his sheep. 

My little boy befrins to babble now 

Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer. 

lie has his father's eagc^r eyes, I know. 

And, they say too, his mother's sunny hair. 

But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee. 
And 1 can fe(!l his light breath come and go, 

I think of one (Heaven help and pity me !) 
Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago. 

Who might have been ... ah, what I dare not think ! 

We all are changed. God judges for us best. 
God help us do our duty, and not shrink. 

And trust in heaven humbly for the rest. 

But blame us women not, if some appear 

Too cold at tinies ; and some too gay and light. 
Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to 
bear. 
Who knows the Past ? and who can I'udge us 
right ? 

Ah, were we judged by what we might have been, 
And not by what we are, too apt to fall ! 

My little child — he sleeps and smiles between 
These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall 
know all ! 



506 JUDICIUM PAUIDIS. 



JUDICIUM PARIDIS. 

I SAID, when young, " Beauty's the supreme joy. 

Her I will choose, and in all forms will face her; 

Rye to eye, lip to lip, and so embrace her 
With my whole heart." I said this being a boy. 

" First, I will seek her — naked, or clad only 
In her own god-head, as I know of yore 
Great bards beheld her." So by sea and shore 

I sought her, and among the mountains lonely. 

" There be great sunsets in the wondrous West; 

And marvel in the orbings of the moon ; 

And glory in the jubilees of June; 
And power in the deep ocean. For the rest, 

" Green-glaring glaciers ; purple clouds of pine ; 

AVhite walls of ever-roaring cataracts ; 

Blue thunder drifting over thirsty tracts; 
The homes of eagles; these, too, are divine, 

" And terror shall not daunt me — so it be 
Beautiful — or in storm or in eclipse : 
Rocking pink shells, or wrecking freighted ships, 

I shall not shrink to find her in the sea. 

" Next, I will seek her — in all shapes of wood. 
Or brass, or marble ; or in colours clad ; 
And sensuous lines, to make my spirit glad. 

And she shall change her dress with every mood. 

" Rose-latticed casements, lone in summer lands — 
Some witch's bower : pale sailors on the marge 
Of magic seas, in an enchanted barge 

Stranded, at sunset, upon jevvell'd sands : 



JUDICIUM PARIDIS. 507 

" White nymphs amonfi the lilies : shepherd kings : 
And pink-hoov'd Fawns : and moon'd Endymions: 
From every channel thro' which Beauty runs 

To fertilize the world with lovely things 

" I will draw freely, and be satisfied. 
Also, all legends of her apparition 
To men, in earliest times, in each condition, 

I will inscribe on portraits of my bride. 

" Then, that no single sense of her be wanting, 
Music ; and all voluptuous combinations 
Of sound, with their melodious palpitations 

To charm the ear, the cells of fancy haunting. -^ 

"And in her courts my life shall be outroU'd 
As one unfurls some gorgeous tapestry, 
Wrought o'er with old Olympian heraldry, 

All purple-woven stiff with blazing gold. 

"And I will choose no sight for tears to flow : 
I will not look at sorrow : I will see 
Nothing less fair and full of majesty 

Than young Apollo leaning on his bow. 

"And I will let things come and go : nor range 
For knowledge: but from moments pluck delight: 
The while the great days ope and shut in light, 

And wax and wane about me, rich with change. 

"Some cup of dim hills, where a white moon lies, 
Dropt out of weary skies without a breath. 
In a great pool : a slumb'rous vale beneath : 

And blue damps prickling into white fire-liies : 

"Some sunset vision of an Oread, less 

Than half an hour ere moonrise caught asleep 
With a flusht cheek, among cnisht violets deep — 

A warm half-glimpse of milk-white nakedness, 



508 JUDICIUM TARIDIS. 

*' On sumptuous summer eves : shall wake for me 
Rapture from all the various stops of life ; 
Making it like some eharm'd Arcadian fife 

Fill'd by a wood-god with his ecstasy." 

These things I said while I was yet a boy, 

And the world show'd as between dream and 

waking 
A man may see the face he loves. So, breaking 
Silence, I cried ..." Thou art the supreme 
Joy ! " 

My spirit, as a lark hid near the sun, 
*• Caroll'd at morning. But ere she had dropt 
Half down the rainbow-colour'd years that 
propp'd 
Her gold cloud up, and broadly, one by one, 

The world's great harvest-lands broke on her eye, 
She changed her tone, ..." What is it I may 

keep '? 
For look here, how the merry reapers reap : 

Even children glean : and each puts something by. 

" The pomps of morning pass : when evening 
comes, 

What is retain'd of these which I may show ? 

If for the hills I leave the fields below 
I fear to die an exile from men's homes. 

" Tho' here I see the orient pageants pass, 
I am not richer than the merest hind 
That toils below, all day, among his kind. 

And clinks at eve glad horns in the dry grass." 

Then, pondering long, at length I made confession. 
" I have err'd much, rejecting all that man did : 
For all my pains I shall go empty-handed : 

And Beauty, of its nature foils possession." 



JUDICIUM PARIDIS. 509 

Thereafter, 1 said ..." Knowledge is most fair. 

Surely to know is better than to see. 

To see is loss : to know is fjain : and we 
Grow old. I will store thriftily, with care." 

In which mood I endured for many years, 
Valuing all things for their iurther uses : 
And seeking knowledge at all open sluices : 

Tho' oft the stream turn'd brakish with my tears. 

Yet not the less, for years in this same mood 
I rested : nor from any ol)ject turn'd 
That had its secret to be spell'd and learn'd, 

Murmuring ever " Knowledge is most good." 

Unto which end I shunn'd the revelling 

And ignorant crowd, that eat the fruits and die : 
And call'd out Plato from his century 

To be my helpmate : and made Homer sing. 

Until the awful Past in gather'd heaps 

AA^eigh'd on my brain, and sunk into my soul, 
And sadden'd thro' my nature, till the whole 

Of life was darken'd downward to the deeps. 

And, wave on wave, the melancholy ages 

Crept o'er my spirit : and the years displaced 
The landmarks of the days : life waned, effaced 

From action by the sorrows of the sages : 

And my identity became at last 

The record of those others : or, if more, 
A hollow shell the sea sung in : a shore 

Of footprints which the waves wash'dTrom it fast. 

And all was as a dream whence, holding breath, 
It seem'd, at times, just possible to break 
By some wild nervous eHbrt, with a shriek, 

Into the real world of life and 'death. 



510 JUDICIUM PARIDIS. 

But tliat thought saved me. Thro' the dark I 
scream'd 
Against the darkness, and the darkness broke, 
And broke that nightmare: back to life ,1 
woke, 
Tho' weary with the dream which I had dream'd. 

O life ! life ! life ! With laughter and with tears 
I tried myself: I knew that I had need 
Of pain to prove that this was life indeed, 

With its warm privilege of hopes and fears. 

O Love of man mathi Life of man, that saves ! 
O man, that standest looking on the light : 
That standest on the forces of the night : 

That standest up between the stars and graves ! 

O man ! by man's dread privilege of pain, 

Dare not to scorn tliine own soul nor thy 

brother's : 
Tho' thou be more or less than all the others. 

Man's life is all too sad for man's disdain. 

The smiles of seraphs are less awful far 
Than are the tears of this humanity, 
That sound, in drop])ing, thro' Eternity, 

Heard in God's ear beyond the furthest star. 

If that be true — the hereditary hate 

Of Love's lost Rebel, since the worlds be- 
gan,— 

The very Fiend, in hating, honours Man : 
Flattering with Devil-homage Man's estate. 

If two Eternities, at strife for us. 

Around each human soul wage silent war, 
Dare we disdain ourselves, tho' faU'n we are, 

With Ilell and Heaven lookiuij; on us thus? 



JUDICIUM PARIDIS. 511 

Whom God bath loved, whom Devils dare not 
scorn, 
Despise not thou — the meanest human creature. 
Climb, if" thou canst, the heights of thine own 
nature, 
And look toward Paradise where each was born. 

So I spread sackcloth on my former pride : 

And sat down, clothed and cover'd up with 

shame : 
And cried to God to take away my blame 

Among my brethren : and to these 1 cried 

To come between my crime and my despair, 

That they might help my heart up, when God 

sent 
Upon my soul its proper punishment, 

Lest that should be too great for me to bear. 

And so I made my choice : and learn'd to live 
Again, and wor'ship, as my spirit yearn'd : 
So much had been admired — so much been 
learn'd — 

So much been given me — O, how much to give ! 

Here is the choice, and now the time, O chooser ! 
Endless the consequence tho' brief the choice. 
' Echoes are waked down ages by thy voice : 
Speak : and be thou the gainer or the loser. 

And I bethought me long ..." Tho' garners split, 
If none but thou be fed art thou more full ? " 
For surely Knowledge and the Beautiful 

Are human ; must have love, or die for it ! 

To Give is better than to Know or See : 

And both are means : and neither is the end : 
Knowing and seeing, if none call thee friend. 

Beauty and knowledge have done nought ibr thee. 



.012 .IIIDICIUM I'AltlDIS. 

'J'ho' fat A))lir()(lil(i all <lay lori'^ 

(i;v/A\ until siinscit with a tliirsty oye, 

I shall not (li-alu her boundKvs.s beauty diy 

By that wild j^aze : nor do Iut fiiir fac-e wrong. 

Vov who oivcH, jiivin^, doth win back his gift : 
And knovvl('(lt,r(^ by division <^m-ovvs to nioro : 
Who hides the Master's talent shall die j)Oor, 

And starve at last of his own thankless thrift. 

I did this f()r another : and, behold ! 

My work hath blood in it: but thine hath none: 
J)()n<^ for thys(^l(", it dies in bein^; done : 

To what thou buyest thou thyself art sold. 

(Jive, thyself utterly away. l)e lost. 

Choose some; one, sonu^thin^ : not thyself, thine 

own : 
Thou canst not perish : but, thrice greater 
grown — 
Thy gain the greatest where thy loss was most — 

Thou in another shalt thyself new-fnid. 

'I'he singUi globule, lost in the wide sea, 

J'xM'onies an ocean. J^iach idctnlily 
Is greatest in the greatness of its kind. 

Who serves for gain, a slave, by thankless pelf 
Is j)aid : who gives himsidf is j)riceless, free. 
I give myself, a man, to (iod : lo, Ife 

Iteniiers me back a saint unto myself! 



r) 1 .s 



NiGirj\ 

CoMK to mc, not as onee thou oamest, Nijjjlit! 
With light and splendour uj) the gor;;eou,s West ; 
Easing the heart's rich sense of thee with 
sighs 
Sohb'd out of all emotion on Love's breast; 
While the dark world wan(>d wavering into rest, 
Half seen athwart the dim dclicioMs light 
Of languid eyes : 

J3ut softly, soberly; and dark — more dark ! 
'J'ill my lilt's shadow lose ilsidf in thine. 

Athwart the light of slo\vly-gatlu>riiig tears, 
That come between me and the starlight, shine 
From (hstant melandioly de(!ps divine, 
AVhile day slips downward thro' a rosy are 
To otluM" spheres. 



SONG. 

Flow, freshly flow, 

Dark stream, below ! 

While stars grow light above : 

15y willowy l)anks, thro' lonely down^ 

Fast terraced walls in silent towns. 

And bear me to my love ! 

Still, as we go, 

Blow, gently blow, 

Warm wijul, and blithely move 

These dreamy sails, that slowly glide- 

A shadow on the shining tide 

'I'hat bears me to my love. 



Ml KOUHKAKAMM':. 

Fade, swot'tly fadt^ 

In dowv sluulo 

On lonely graniio and iirovo, 

O lin<>orini; day I aiul brinijj the niijht 

Thro* all hor nHlk->vhiti> nia/.os briijht 

'ri\at tivnible o'or my lovo. 

The snnset wanes 

From t\vinklin<j; panes. 

nim, misty myriads n.iove 

Down olinunering- streets One liijht 1 see- 

C)ne happy lijiht, that shines for me, 

And lights luo to my \o\c I 



FORBEARANCE. 

C\\i.i. n\e not. Love, nnthankful. or unklnil, 
That I have left my heart with thee, and tied 

I were not worth that wealth whieh I resigu'd. 
Had l not t'hosen poverty insteail. 

(irant me but solitude I 1 dare not swerve 

Fnnn n\y soul's law — a slave, tho' serving tluM 

I but tbrbear n\ore grauilly to deserve : 
The tree liit't onlv cometh of the free. 



BOOKS IN BLUE AND GOLD, 

im;i'.mshki> hy 

TICKNOU AND FIELDS. 



ir^" Sont free of postage on receipt of price. ,^^^ 

LONOFELLOW'S PKOSE WORKS. 2 voIh. $1.75. 
LONOFELLOVV'S POKTICAL WORKS. 2 vols. $1.76 
LOWELL'S I'OKTICAL WORKS. 2 vols. $1.50. 
TENNYSONS POIiTKJAL WORF^S. 1 vol. 76 cents. 
PI'^RCIVALS POETICAL WORKS. 2 vols. $1.75. 
MOTHERWELL'S POETKJAL WORKS. 1 voL 75 cents. 
OWEN MEREDITir'S I'OETKJAL WORKS. 1vol. 75 ceiitrj. 
WIIITTIERS POETKJAL WORKS. 2 voIh. $1.50. 
LEIOir HUNT'S POETKJAL WORKS. 2 vols. $1.50 
GERALD MASSEY'S I'OETICAL WORKS. 1 vol. 75 cents. 
BOWUING'S MATINS AND VESPERS. 1 vol. 75 cents. 
MRS. JAMESON'S CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN. 1 vol. 

75 cents. 
MRS. JAMESON'S LOVES OF THE POETS. 1 vol. 75 cents. 
MRS. JAMESON'S DIARY OP AN ENNUYEE. 1 vol. 76 

cents. 
MRS. .JAMESON'S SKETCHPIS OF ART. 1 vol, 75 cents. 
MRS. JAME.SON'S MEMOIRS OF ITALIAN PAINTERS. 1 

vo). 75 cents. 
MRS. JAMESON'S STUDIES AND STORIES. 1 vol. 75 conts. 



idified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: April 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




